Objects of My Affection

This morning, I heard the news that my grandmother’s home is going to be sold, and it’s got me thinking about my memories of the house. It’s being purchased by one of my aunts, so it isn’t a traumatic event where I’ll never be able to visit again, but it has me thinking nonetheless.

I’ve gone through this already – on the other side of my family. My father’s parents’ farm was sold and I had to make the list of my precious objects that I had to have. The list was short. The only thing I wanted from the farm was a set of World Book encyclopedias for children, published in the 50s or 60s. I learned how to read from those books, specifically the purple one that was entirely poetry. I learned “The Purple Cow” from that book, a poem I recite at least weekly to this day:

I never saw a purple cow
I never hope to see one
But I can tell you anyhow,
I’d rather see than be one!

Obviously, nobody put up a fight about the encyclopedia set, and I have it now. Even if I never pick up one of those books again, they will always remain close to my heart as a reminder of my one true love as a child – reading.

The one thing that I would love to have from my grandmother’s house is very similar – a set of books. I wish that I could recall the titles of them, but it’s escaping me now. It was a series of autobiographical stories told by a Norwegian woman who married a preacher that was significantly older than her. They moved to the United States and had five or six children. The story itself was not that compelling, but the idea that this woman took the time to write her memories out, to document their lives in a way that her children and grandchildren (and by now, great-great-great-grandchildren) must treasure – it changed my life. It taught me that a dramatic story isn’t necessary to write about one’s own life, that the simple mundane details can add up to an amazing testament to family and love and life. I think those books made me a blogger long before I knew I’d ever put pen to paper.

So as I think about both my World Books from the farm and the books that I would love to retrieve from my Grandma’s house, it strikes me that I’ve never chosen objects that are tied to a specific person. I have never longed to have objects to remind me of my grandparents. I guess I feel like I don’t need those things, I will always have memories of them that are more important than what they owned.

From my Grandma Wilma, I will have the desire to cook, to bake, to feed people, to grow vegetables and flowers. And of course, the urge to clean under the fridge once a week and vacuum the cat, and the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach while watching a thunderstorm roll in, even though my livelihood isn’t tied to the weather anymore. Obviously, I'll also have those moments when I look into a mirror and see her instead of me.

From my Grandpa Curt, I will always have the need to get out of bed at 5 am, to put in a hard day’s work, to be kind to animals and take in strays. I will know how to get out of a tight pair of cowboy boots and how to size a cowboy hat, and I will respect the land and the generations of cowboys like him, and I will understand a way of life that existed long before commercial farms and industrial stockyards.

From my Grandpa Don, I will always feel an obligation to serve the public that cannot be silenced. I will always tear up when I see a fire truck or a fireman in full turnout gear. I will understand that the people who put their lives on the line to make our world livable are giving us the greatest gift.

And from my Grandma Wanda, I have learned that everything in the past that has led us here is worth remembering, cherishing, and documenting. A lifelong genealogist, my summers spent with Grandma doing research and combing through cemeteries and library basements are priceless to me. The generations of men and women who preceded me, who came to this country and made this life possible for me, were brought to life for me by her, and I can never thank her enough for that.

These are the things that come to mind when I think about objects that will remind me of my grandparents. There aren’t any. The things that I want to hang onto are more of a memorial to my own childhood and aren’t really that attached to any one of my grandparents in my mind. It’s when I start feeling selfish about that, when I start wondering why objects don’t mean more to me, that I have to remember the most basic truth when it comes to my memories:

I am who I am today because of them. I am my own example of what amazing people they are, and I will carry the lessons they’ve taught me into every situation that I ever face.

And that doesn’t require dusting.