The Meaning of Stuff

 

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I always associated pearls with my grandmother.
Not sure why.
It wasn't as though she was always seen sporting beautiful strands of pearls but she did have a lovely pearl engagement ring. It seemed to suit her delicate fingers and the softness of her kind spirit.

She passed away when I was a teenager.
Too early.
I do have wonderful memories...
and the odd sentimental object that I have from her
still garners a smile from me when I pick it up or see it in my home.

Every summer I fill her fern stand with begonias.
It sits in front of the window on our deck in a spot where the rain will not damage it in any way.
We admire the begonias all summer long but most importantly I think of the fern stand,
where it comes from and the person that it belonged to before me... my grandmother.

It is all stuff.
I know that.
But I think that this stuff holds memories.
Tiny reminders of what once was.

My daughter and I took a quick road trip over the weekend so that we could visit her grandmother and step-grandmother on her father's side.
They are both living in their own homes.
They are both slipping into a world of lost memories and confused states of understanding.

As I cooked meals, put away dishes, picked up odds and ends I found myself studying the various items spread around the rooms in both homes.
Items that help define the lives of these two different women.

In one home,
scrapbooks filled with photos, pamphlets and memorabilia reveal the life of a Canadian opera star.
Performances at Carnegie Hall and opera houses in cities such as Barcelona, Munich and Berlin, to name just a few.

Framed posters dating back to the 1950's line the upstairs hallway while black and white photos in gold gilt frames expose a young beautiful woman in operatic costume.

And all the while, she sits, unaware that this was her life.
She admires the lady in the photos and acknowledges her beauty but doesn't recognize herself.

Not until...
the music plays.
Then a glimmer of the woman that once was... comes to the surface
and perhaps a door temporarily opens to allow those memories to flow back in.

In the other home,

lovely Danish blue and white china acknowledge the heritage of its owner.
The colour on the living room walls may give a glimpse into her character.

A collection of skis by the door confirm a love of the outdoors.
Perhaps this does not necessarily identify to a visitor that she was a successful ski racer and member of the Canadian National Ski team
but we all know.

Much like the other home,
newspaper clippings, photos and pamphlets
tell us much about the life lived and shared within the walls of this beautiful heritage home.

When I close my eyes and shut out the voices around me I hear faint traces of the various committee members that met within these walls to make plans, set goals and take action to save forests and streams across the province.
Write-ups in newspapers confirm the many environmental awards and accolades granted her.

And I giggle to myself when I reflect on the time she tied herself to a beautiful old tree on the main street that was tagged for cutting.

Yes, she was a mighty leader, well-read, knowledgeable and passionate about all that she did.
She lived life in the moment.

She still remembers many of those events in her life.
But I do believe it is getting harder to "live" in the moment.

And what about all that "stuff".
Does it ignite a spark that transports either of them back in time to those special moments in their life?
Does your "stuff" do that for you?

Confused? I guess I am taking liberty as a blogger to write my own way into meaning.
Not sure I have done that.

Still left with a lot of questions but I seem to be looking at my own "stuff" through a slightly adjusted lens.
I am not planning on collecting more "stuff" but certainly the memories.
How about you?


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