Thinking about THINGS...

The little chest here belonged to my grandmother, then my mom, now me. (When I was 4 or 5 I used to straddle it when the lid was closed and pretend it was a pony. I rode that poor pony hard! But I digress.) The chest spent most of the time (when it wasn't a pony!) in the living room corner, with a copper lamp and an anemic philodendron in a dented copper tea kettle.

The rocking chair on the left was a gift to my mom from my dad. And that doll? She is ancient and plays antique blue records shaped like cups that go into her back. My grandfather gave her to my mom when she survived a very nasty bout of Scarlett Fever. It was during the depression and the dream of owning a doll like this was way out of the realm of reality for the little girl who grew up to be my mother. And she treasured that doll.

That little chair on the right? That belonged to my paternal grandmother, then my dad, then me, then my daughter. The little rung where a child's feet would rest have the sweetest little depressions, worn smooth by generations.

These things. They hold meaning to me both in memory and because I find them lovely. Sometimes I wonder who will have them when they are no longer mine. I don't want to clutter up my daughters home and life with relics of my past... (Rachel, if you are reading this, please remember that just because your mother once touched something it does not have to be yours forever!) but I hope that if she does not want the things that are meaningful to me, she will find someone who loves them. They might not know the history of just who the little feet that wore the chair rungs smooth belonged to, but they should recognize the loveliness of a patina made from memories...