“A man’s real possession is his memory. In nothing else is he rich; in nothing else is he poor.” — Alexander Smith
A friend said the other day, “Your possessions are not your memories.” Boy, were they right. We just did a big purge of our basement and garage; we even had a dumpster, so much of it got bagged up and dumped. Board games with missing pieces, puzzles that somehow got wet and were now moldy, and whole herds of stuffed animals. Right now, I am keeping just three little plush friends: my brown and white dog, Quincy, whom I got when I was 12 at Quincy Market in Boston, a duplicate of him that I found on eBay, so I can sleep with that one and retire the original, and another random dog, a FuddleWuddle puppy made by Jellycat. He came home with me from a Hallmark store because he looked so sad and forlorn on a shelf of Snowbabies and cheap Christmas ornaments.
Poor old Quincy is missing his eyes and one ear, and his tail has been nipped several times, so I have him in a place of honor on my dresser, where he is safe. Quincy 2.0 rests on my pillow. Fuddlewuddle is next to him because he’s new and needs a friend. It’s easy to see how I developed this habit of not throwing toys away. I blame Woody and the gang from Andy’s room in Toy Story for making me think the toys were partially human and had feelings.
None of these toys are memories, but they are part of them. They exist as silent witnesses to our stories, and that has value. There were nights in high school and college when Quincy was my best little confidant, waiting patiently on my bed, listening to me tell him all my secrets, including which boys I liked and definitely which ones I’d like him to bite… if he were real. They are precious to me, and I make sure nothing happens to them, but even if it did, I would still have all the memories.
Memory is a common topic for me. I’ve written about food bringing back fond memories and photographs, too, and how even a particular scent can trigger a memory. Our possessions are the same. It’s silly, but because we carry these objects with us throughout our lives, they become part of our memory and take on some of the energy from all those experiences. It sounds like a lot of woo-woo, and it is, in a way. Still, memories can fade, so I make sure to keep a few reminders.
Letting go of stuff is hard; we all have that junk drawer or those boxes full of random items that get stashed all over the place, and before you know it, you have a dumpster full of stuff you didn’t know still existed. It’s a struggle because you see something, and you remember that day at Disney when you looked in every shop to find just the right souvenir mug or gift. Now it’s in a crate in your garage, the handle is cracked, and you don’t even remember why it was so important to have that particular mug until you come across it on some random rainy day.
I’ve been trying to reduce the amount of “stuff” all over my house, and it’s getting there. The concept of “like with like” has been helpful. The few pieces of vintage Waterford that I have, some shamrock pottery, and an empty Tullamore D.E.W. jug all have a place of honor on a whiskey barrel shelf, as they are memories of trips to Ireland or Irish bars. On another table, I have some of the kids’ favorite toys, like the very first Matchbox car I bought my oldest, a silly spaceman toy my brother got for my middle boy, and a tiny pair of patent leather shoes my daughter wore once, the soles of which have never touched the ground. I keep them around because they bring those memories back to me, but writing about them ensures that in twenty years, when I can’t remember why they’re important, there’s a physical reminder of a memory that still matters.
That would be my pro tip for anyone cleaning out. Throw a note in an envelope and stick it inside that vase your grandmother gave you — someday, your kids will want to know the history so they can decide whether it will be part of their story, too. Write the dates and places on the back of photos — trust me, forty years on, you will not remember that it’s your bestie and you on your bikes at the beach, right before the fireworks. These random items are not the memories we cherish. Sometime in the future, when you can’t tell your story, they will.
Brenda Kelley Kim has lived in Marblehead for 50 years and is an author, freelance writer, and mother of three. Her column appears weekly.
