The Loss of Sentiment

The Loss of Sentiment

Kathy and I spent the day cleaning out our storage area.

We plan to sell our current home in a month or two and need to lighten our load.

I remember when we first married, china, crystal, and a silverware set were so important.

Family heirlooms were passed from generation to generation; you didn’t dare throw them away or give them to Goodwill.

We have a lot of furniture, clocks, and other family stuff we held onto even when we moved from Oregon to Montana.

Our boys have their favorites, and those will continue to be passed down, but for the most part, I think people are over it.

When we got married, we had a silver set, china, everyday dishes, quilts, clocks, and end tables.

We don’t use half of it, so why hang onto it?

We gave the rocking chairs my mom rocked in to Jake, and we have another one for Jess.

But they don’t really need or use them.

Functional furniture and practicality have become much more important.

I think it’s healthy, honestly.

I think of the family disagreements that arose from who got what stuff.

Now it all seems so meaningless.

I still like looking at a lamp or an old chair and remembering the day my grandmother gave it to me.

I sometimes think of her or Kathy’s family when I remember to.

As we toss things we held onto for little reason today, there’s a freedom that comes with it.

My grandma wasn’t a chair.

The memories I have of her are not static; they are the things she said and the look she gave me.

Yes, I still have the green lamp that sat by her bed when I slept at her house as a nine-year-old.

It’s not her turning off that light that I remember; it’s the sound of her voice telling me to be still and go to sleep that stays with me.

The blue-and-white dishes are reminders of the breakfasts she used to make.

But what means more is her asking me if I’d eat like that if President Nixon were joining us for breakfast.

My answer was always the same: “Grandma, President Nixon is not coming to your house for breakfast.”

Things spur memories, but they are not memories.

People are.