A Life in a Box: When to Let Go

In all of our basements, attics, spare closets, etc. we gather lifetime of stuff, much of which we never use or look at for decades. In them are pieces of our history that we don’t want to let go because they spark a specific memory of a person, place or event. Such is the case for Mom L.

At the start of this adventure, the three of use gathered in her basement to go through all of the boxes that had been there since her last move five years ago. And we learned that much of it had been there from two or three moves prior.

An organized chaos of sorts, we set out to determine the contents of every box and determine its fate. Legal pad, pen and sharper marker in hand, we numbered each box and noted the contents. The four piles were simple (sort of): 1. Stuff definitely coming with us; 2. Stuff that needs to be looked through; 3. Stuff for the grandkids; and 4. Stuff for goodwill.

Pile one grew quickly, but – to my shock – there was so many boxes that we would need to look through before taking. Twenty seven boxes of papers, folders, old bills, etc. – Mom L.’s lifetime in a box.

It’s amazing what you can learn about person by the things she saved. As I sorted through the yellowed newspaper recipes and advice columns, I was saddened by the reality that she would never cook these recipes for the family she built. They represented a time when a young woman was learning how to be wife and a mother, simply looking for a way to navigate the new waters. I wondered if she remembered what “Dear Abby” said in 1970 and if it was really my decision to say she didn’t need that bit of advice.

Peeking into someone’s life can be exhausting. I was quickly overcome with emotions; Mike less so. (I’m learning that men have an ability to turn off their emotions – at least externally – when the need arises.) I kept thinking, “Who am I to say she won’t ever need the recipe of for that specific chicken casserole?” even though I knew she hadn’t cooked anything like it in the eight years Mike and I have been together. Still, it was tough.

Because her eyes are bad, she was unable to look through much of the boxes and relied on Mike and my judgment. We took out every UKrups recipe we could find, as that name stuck in her head as having a specific dish she wanted to make. (I doubt she will ever look at them, and then feel bad for thinking that way.)

An outline of her life starts to unfold as we pilfer through her stuff, and she fills in the details. I’m now convinced that she does remember what “Dear Abby” advised her in 1970, and wonder if I should take note.