Take it with you, he always says. It has become a running joke over the years, but he really means it. He wants me to take it out of his house and into mine, and now that my children are almost adults, I understand why.
My in-laws have lived in the same home for 47 years, and it is packed with memories. Many of these memories are tangible, packed in boxes and tucked into crannies, corners, and closets. A full home clean-out would take months, but my father-in-law is doing his part, one memento at a time.
My husband’s high school football jersey? Take it with you! A box of photos I offered to go through? Take it with you! When I mentioned I needed a new stockpot, Dad couldn’t hand me one of theirs fast enough. I laughed as he handed it to me on Christmas Day, minutes after we arrived. Take it with you!
I am more of a purger than a collector, but I didn’t fully understand my father-in-law’s need to clean house until the empty nest became a not-so-distant reality. When the kids were younger, I reminded myself that they won’t live at home forever, and I should appreciate the mess while they were still living with me.
I’m over that. I’m not ready to kick my kids out, but I’m tired of all the STUFF.
The new year brings a systematic cleaning and reorganization of the closets in my house, starting with the basement. My strategy is simple: if my kids think they will take it with them when they move out, I’ll store it. Otherwise, it’s gone.
Well, almost. I will save a few art masterpieces, a few favorite toys, and all of the books. I’m not completely heartless and unsentimental, and I know how these childhood artifacts can illicit powerful memories years later.
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My mother spent a rainy Saturday cleaning out her basement this past fall. She still has all her record albums, and I know getting rid of some items was difficult for her. Yet as she often reminds me, she knows my sister and I will toss much of this stuff once she’s gone, so why hang onto it for us? I already took my middle school P.E. uniform and my Homecoming dress; what am I supposed to do with a vintage Jessica McClintock frock that my kids thought was a pioneer woman costume?
Hey, at least it still fits.
I did peruse my mom’s treasures. She had a dozen board games I remember from my childhood; some were purchased when I was a kid, and some were from my mother’s childhood. My sister and I spent hours playing those games, rolling the die onto the brittle boards, moving our pieces from square to square. Parcheesi, Monopoly, and Yahtzee were my games, and there were a few score sheets that still bore my adolescent curly cursive loops of the “D” where I wrote my name.
I took my mother’s Scrabble game. The box is ripped, and the paper lunch bag that holds the tiles is probably thirty years old. Matt and I have a Words with Friends streak, but I’d love to revert to old school Scrabble where the only words permitted are words I’ve actually heard of and can use in a sentence. And then I took Rummykub (or Rummy-Q, as I called it). How many hours I spent at my grandparents’ dining room table playing that game – my grandmother, my grandfather, my sister and I. Perhaps my love of games started with those Rummy-Q battles, and two little girls trying to outmaneuver Grandma and Grandpa.
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So I’ll save some of the games in my basement, too. I’m trying to think beyond my immediate need to purge the miscellany of two childhoods, and anticipate the nostalgia so many of these items will hold for my daughter and son.
The baby doll she carried around for years, which now looks like a cherubic Chuckie.
The handmade wooden sword he bought with his own money at the Renaissance Festival.
The board books I read to them, and the early readers they read to me.
And when Matt and I downsize and I have no more room to store these things, I will repeat the words of a wise, patient man: Take it with you.
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