When Em was a
little girl I was able to give her a real violin. It came by us in a wonderful way. She had been wanting one when a musically
artistic, intellectually gifted, and southern gentleman friend of mine happened
to offer me a violin that had belonged to his son and which had been stored
away in an attic, in of all places, Oxford, Mississippi. With such a storied provenance the violin
must be magical. Em played that violin
until her hands grew too big and she outgrew the idea of playing. We then stored the pretty instrument in my
closet.
The violin
was not for sale.
Who then to
pass the instrument to but young Master Sage, a beautiful boy who immediately drew
the bow across the strings in a pleasing tone.
His home is filled
with music and musicians and love and I know that the
violin will have a new and full life before it moves to the next.
*****
“How much for
this piano?” “$2500 and not a penny less,” I told the old man as I sat down to
play. Okay, I’ll give you $5 for this
blanket, No that’s $10, I don’t need to sell it and you’re the first customer
of the day, I don’t want to give it away. Okay what about this little pile of
things and the blanket for $10? So, you want to pay $10 for the blanket and all
the other stuff for free? Haha!
Yes! That’s why you call it a garage
sale, to bargain! Hand out, $10 in.
Next!
Unless family
would come by and I would give them those things that could not be sold; Uncle Dan’s
paintings, a wooden carving of Don Quixote that came
from a trip to Madrid with my mother, some things Dad brought home from his
travels, things that meant something to me but would not fit in the van.
The mahogany table that my dad built for me I
gave to my musical friends who I know will have their friends over, it will
hold their wine and crayons and they will love it as a place of commune, conversation
and family.
The paper
things I collected over the years filled several boxes and represented times of
my life from birth until yesterday. My mother passed away in June of last year
and the home that needed to be emptied out then was the same home I grew up in
so there were additional files that Mom had kept for me. My sister had put them and some special
pieces aside for me when she and a few brothers cleaned out the family home in
August. I have not yet looked at the box
but sight unseen they are unquestionably belongings to keep.
But what will
I do with those old tests? Birthday
cards piled up? Programs of shows I no longer remember? I could not imagine
throwing these things into a garbage can to be toted to the landfill and
stirred in with who know what forms of garbage.
I thought I could burn them in a bonfire. File after file into the fire in a
ritualistic letting go. Could I do it?
And where was I going to find a bonfire on short notice?
The fabric of
the Universe felt the ripple of need and the fire presented itself. I was able to crash a party of cousins in
Grandmom and Granddad’s backyard. They
gathered with beer, music and s’mores and I showed up with my box of
stuff. Bit by bit we laughed over
pictures, the kids insisted on some things I was to keep, I threw other stuff in without
thought and with glee and my pile was whittled down to a slice of what it had
been. Into the pit my physical memories
became ash but the memory itself is embedded in my mind. Old drawings of Emily's, homework files,
report cards, essays, poems, heartbreaks and hopes.
The only photographable moment was when a
torn Warhol poster of Marilyn burned alongside 50 year old newspapers of JFK’s
assassination. A visual I can still see
but failed to capture. I look now at
what we brought to New York and realize much of it is the paper things of Emily’s. They are her childhood memories and also
then, mine.
Isn’t that
the thing about memories? Do we need to
remember everything? Do we need to have
reminders of the things in order to remember them? Is it the things
that we remember or is it the experience that we associate with them?
I had thought
of taking a photo of each object as it was sold but I was so crazy busy that that
not only was that idea impossible but forgotten. While writing this post I came across a photo
of Emily holding an American Doll that Santa had dropped off in 2002. My heart nearly cracked thinking that the
doll was now in the home of a stranger.
Those days are really over.
We’ve really moved on.
Those days are really over.
We’ve really moved on.
I love reading this stuff, awesome! I took pictures of all the artwork etc... I saved from each of my 3 daughters, then packed the originals away and am giving them each a box to do with as they please. I wish I could have been at your sale, I would have taken a ton of pics, which take up just a small flashdrive. :)
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