Memories Hide Within the Clutter

Why do we keep the stuff we keep?

David Nisley from Pixabay” src=”https://kathygiles.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/steamer-trunk-3414018_1920-1024×685.jpg” alt=”Memories hide in clutter” width=”1024″ height=”685″> Memories hide within the clutter

I alternately wage war and make peace with the clutter in my house. Occasionally my tolerance of “stuff” reaches critical mass and I go on a rampage against it. In those moods I’m determined to minimalize, simplify, de-acquire. But my clutter is sneaky. It knows how to play me. It tugs on my sentiment, and ambushes me with memories.

Mugs Full of Memories

Take coffee mugs. I cleaned out my kitchen cupboard and discarded a dozen mugs that I never use. But the 26 that I couldn’t throw away all mean something to me.

Like the mugs from the colleges my kids attended. Why do I keep them now that the kids have graduated? I keep them because they represent the hard work and sacrifices our whole family made to get the kids through college. Countless times I prayed for my children while drinking my coffee from their school mugs. And when they were home on break we sat with our mugs and talked about life, the future, and how much they missed home.

One mug came from a dear friend – she’s moved away now but we used to meet for coffee often. Half a dozen cups match the dishware we bought as newlyweds. The four snowman ones held hot chocolate on winter days when the kids were little. We bought the handmade pottery one from a local artisan in Alaska. The kids gave me the two Snoopy mugs because they know he’s a childhood favorite of mine. And I designed and custom-ordered that personally branded mug when I started my writing business.

I know inevitably some of those mugs I kept will be dropped or broken. They’ll develop cracks or get discolored from the coffee or the cocoa. The finish may wear after endless cycles in the dishwasher. My kids might take a couple of their favorites when they move out and set up their own homes. Eventually those mugs might lose their significance, but for now the memories hit me every time I open the cupboard.

A Piano I Can’t Play

I remember sitting next to my grandmother on her piano bench as a child while she played and sang nursery rhymes with us. When her sister came to visit they would sit side by side and make that piano rock with their duets. Their hands ran up and down the keyboard, crossing each other to play counterpoint harmonies and melodies of big band, jazz and ragtime. My dad loved music, and would sometimes join in on his clarinet. Other times he’d hold my hands and dance around the room with me while I stood balanced on his shoes. Those were happy memories for me.

Fast-forward a couple decades – Dad and Grandma were both gone, and I inherited that piano. At the time I was the only one who had room for it in my house. For ten years it remained a large piece of clutter in my living room, because I didn’t even play. But I couldn’t fathom giving it to strangers. Eventually I took lessons, but unfortunately I didn’t inherit Grandma’s talent along with her piano. So when the opportunity came to give it to my sister (who by that time had both room and talent), I was able to declutter and still keep it in the family.

Stories to Remember and Stories to Forget

The things I keep aren’t just things, they’re memory prompts. They help me recall the stories and people I want to remember, and sometimes the ones I want to forget.

Recently I found my Grandpa Tommy’s umpire indicator at the bottom of a drawer I was clearing out. Grandpa was a National Softball Hall of Fame first baseman in his youth, and continued to work locally as an umpire well into his retirement years. He always left his “clicker” in the dish on the kitchen counter with his keys. When I was little, he showed me how to turn the dials and call out the ball and strike counts I could see in the display.

When I was in high school, I played one season of intramural softball for the grocery store chain where I worked. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit any of Grandpa’s softball talent either. In the one game Grandpa umpired for my team, I dropped a fly ball in center field. He never let me forget it. In fact, he repeated that story to everyone in the vicinity whenever I was around.

I’m not sure why I’ve held on to that clicker for so many years. Of all the stories our clutter tells, that’s one I’d just as soon forget. But the memory of his laughter, of his delight in teasing me, has me tucking it back in the drawer again.

I guess I can deal with a little more clutter.

What memories are you holding with the clutter you keep? Share your comments below!

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