We all have a different definition of what is of sentimental value to us. Some of us see no value in old stuff that reminds us of people, places, things we did. The memories are enough. For some of us there is an emotional attachment in every piece of paper and box and thing we find. For some there is a middle ground, some things have an emotional value worth holding onto it and other things do not. What is that old saying, “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure!”
When it comes to 59 years worth of stuff to go through in your childhood home, it is easy to get rid of pure junk and harder to get rid of anything you think your parent’s saved intentionally. We all have a different attachment to items and memories, my brother and I are complete opposites. He has no real attachment to anything but memories. I find attachment to things with my parent’s handwriting, and anything that brings me a beautiful memory.
The 20-yard dumpster on the driveway reminded me that most of what we were going through was to end up in there. A lifetime of love, strife, living being thrown away in a dumpster to a landfill. The idea of it nauseated me a bit, but I have done it in my own home after my husband and I split and knew it was the right thing to do, I also knew, intellectually, that there was a lot of junk in the garage. I knew that the envelopes I had found in my mom’s dresser with each of our names on it, filled with pictures of us was not going to be found in the garage. That the real sentimental stuff was in the house.
I was not entirely right. We filled that dumpster with everything from tires, to wires, to old canisters and empty containers. We added broken chairs, and hammocks along with old wood and disintegrating plastic, boxes falling apart and more empty containers. Through everything we found pictures that were so very old we needed my Aunt to help us figure out who some of the people were. She was quite happy when I brought her pictures of her dad, and her great-grandmother who lived to 103!
Atop the Kelvinator refrigerator, which still runs, there were boxes and valise bags. We opened one valise with my mom’s maiden initials engraved, HHK, filled with some clothes. The second one we opened was filled with letters. Letters that my mom received from the man she was with prior to dad. We knew his name, it got thrown around sometimes during mom and dad’s arguments. Dad never seemed phased by the idle threats and of course 68 years of marriage showed it was just that, a threat. We closed that immediately and put the case in the pile of stuff coming with me. I have the sentimental attachment don’t forget and I think I want to read these.
Then again, do I want to invade my mother’s privacy? Not sure right now but I did know they did not belong in that dumpster. Nor did the cards that my dad wrote to my mom which were found in a briefcase he had in the garage. Again, they are with me but I am not sure they will all be read. On the one hand, getting into their heads and seeing what was going on is quite interesting, on the other it feels invasive.
Much of what has come home with me others would view as junk. However I see value in understanding what my parents thought had value. My brother would tell you that they didn’t see value in most of this stuff, dad just hated throwing things away. That is truth. There are many things in that garage that should have just been tossed many many years ago. There are also things that I believe dad had an attachment to. He was a first generation American born to parents who immigrated to the USA in 1918 or so. He was the only one of the 4 children to go to college. He proudly graduated in 3 1/2 years as a mechanical engineer, with his wife and newborn baby by his side. The books, the documents from college were items he had a sentimental attachment to. He saved those intentionally.
Deciding if something has sentimental value or is junk is not easy to do, especially if you are me, a bit of a packrat with a connection to things that are about my family. Unlike everyone else in my family, the family I grew up with and the family that inhabited that house is my only family. Without a spouse or kids, I have no other family. This stuff is my family attachment. I was damn proud of the amount of stuff I threw away and that although I brought stuff home, not nearly as much as I could have.