‘You only get two boxes for your stuff. These hired movers are paid by the hour”.
My mother always yelled this as she hurried by my room to wrap more dishes in newspaper.
I am certain my family carries a nomad gene. Otherwise, how else to explain my childhood life of moving at least three times a year.
It continually dismantled my life, creating a loss of personal history. There are no saved arts and crafts created in classrooms, nor class photos or end of year achievement awards.
In each move, I was allowed only one personal items box.
Choosing keepsakes newly placed in refilled drawers was a dreaded task. So many years later, I recall assessing long-held keepsakes for judgment. Each memento must evoke sufficient emotional connection to retain its prized placement in that sole moving box.
With each move, treasured mementos traveling with me for years were finally discarded in the quest for a minimum number of boxes.
Despite my longing to retain my only childhood doll, eventually it could no longer fit into the moving box filled with teenage mementos. Relegated to the trash bag, her sad face reflected my own, pleading with me to treasure its embedded hours of happy memories.
It is with a deep sense of loss that I listen to people sharing pictures of their family’s childhood, documents and diaries, some covering generations of life years.
My life heritage, just like my doll, was unable to justify space in a moving truck.
There is no heirloom dishes to use, passed from one generation to the next.
There is no withered and faded love letters from my great-grandparents to one another, scented with lingering perfume.
There is no photo of each home I lived in, nor do I retain sensory memories or a sense of belonging to any house.
All is a blur of cleaning and packing to prepare for the next place to move.
My family did not treasure their heritage, perhaps because my mother had simply never been taught the value of weaving a vital family thread from past generations into future ones.
Later in her life, she haunted antique stores, searching to gift me with mementos long ago discarded in our haste to move.
With no letters from long gone relatives and limited pictures, there can be no recalled coincidences nor shared history.
As I read and listen to memoirs of those who have received this heritage of family history, I ponder and mourn my deep loss.
Sharing my own family history leads to remembering, remembering there is so little known.
It is no small wonder that I raised my family in the same home.
Recently, I began to pack thirty years of raising busy boys into boxes.
I pause for too long to hold my last son’s three-month old baby hat, lost in a nostalgic memory of his birth.
Do I want to maintain my well-taught heritage mantra- if you haven’t looked at it in three months, toss it out?
Does it still ring true to keep the number of moving boxes to a minimum?
While I may not have looked at my first-born son’s first handwritten note for years, I hesitate to discard it now.
Now- just when he might want to see it.
While memories are stored in our mind, it is so often tangible objects embedded with those memories that bring will rush an emotion and a story to mind.
As my children left home, they left behind boxes of treasured keepsakes for storage.
This tender fragile thread of uniting their young life to their adult life is the essence of valuing family history.
When I move, those hired movers surely will make a hefty sum moving all their boxes and all of mine, filled full of mementos.
It will be worth it.
Notes To Ponder said:
My comment can best be understood by this post….
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shalilah2002 said:
I am decluttering and will certainly not throw out all of those memories/ I’ve even passed some of those long kept memories to my daughter. They are priceless.
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Wendy said:
My sons are still in the ‘moving around in life’ stage, so I continue to hold their treasures at my house. It is hard to de-clutter, especially after raising children. I have taken pictures of some things, but, I agree with you, they are priceless mementos we really don’t want to throw away.
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Marie said:
Wow! I can relate. Sorta. I have moved too many places to count. After attending 15 plus different schools and numerous houses I am stuck with this thought: How do I live anywhere longer than two years? I hope one day I can find a place that is truly home.
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Wendy said:
I can relate. I moved again several times during my adult life as well before finally settling into a home to raise a family. I confess, those first years I kept dealing with the feeling -isn’t it time to move out, move on? Thankfully, I experience both sides of living, both staying and moving all the time. I hope one day you will too.
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clarissa415 said:
I’m 75% Romani (Gypsy) and benefited from my parents refusing to move around as they did when young. Yet when I started my life over in Florida, I moved 12 times in 13 years. Mostly all of my memoirs are gone but I saved my diaries, special gifts from my sons and have my box of talismans. I’m so grateful for flash drives that hold many photographs. In a way, I’ve embraced the portability of my life. I’m thinking of moving to Arizona even though I’m in my 60’s! All this is to say that I enjoyed your story and your excellent writing style. 🙂
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Wendy said:
I’ve started to move my photos into those flash drives. In many ways, technology facilitates embracing the “Gypsy” life. Hum, perhaps I’ll follow your example and begin traveling again in my 60’s 😉 .
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