Stuff...

Thanking objects for their memories

I’m uncomfortable when I walk into a house bereft of clutter and stuff. You know, the ones that look like they come out of a magazine spread or a Pottery Barn catalogue, all coordinated fabrics and art curated to show off the owner’s refined taste, a framed photo of the family on the mantle as the only evidence that anyone lives there. (Of course, you can frame photos of other people’s families, so perhaps that’s no proof.) And the kitchens with empty countertops, like aliens had dropped down, taken all the people, and cleaned the kitchen.

Then there are other houses, of which the Vineyard is amply blessed, that are so full of life and the personality and creativity of their owners that you immediately feel at ease, sinking into the squashy thrifted-or-inherited sofa with its eclectic pillows and hand-woven throw, and admire the collection of funky antique cast-iron doorstops lining the mantle over a blazing fire.

I’ll admit to a bit of pack-rat-ery (more than a bit, my husband would say). I feel a deep connection to certain objects. My coffee mug with the glaze that dripped into two adorably tiny feet carries the memory of hunting for the perfect imperfect mug with my daughter in the backroom shelves of Chilmark Pottery. Grandma’s favorite ‘70s wooden salad bowl, a trinket discovered in an antique store in Pennsylvania with my mom, the gorgeous shirt I found on sale in a boutique in Paris that will fit again when I lose 15 pounds. They make me feel closer to the people, remember the places, and relive the memories.

My favorite mug, photo by author

This past weekend was a deep dive into de-cluttering literally decades of stuff, which got me thinking about the power of things. Objectively, they can be beautiful or not, useful or not, crummy or in good shape. Some, not all, carry sentimental value. (I dislike that expression’s implication that such feelings are silly and trite.) My husband has a bad habit of tossing things without asking me because I might want to keep them, under the principle that if I haven’t been using it, I won’t miss it. True, but I grieve for what has been lost, even the life-size cardboard cutout of John Wayne that once graced a corner of the basement rec room.

more stuff to sort! photo by author

Objects are a magical conduit to memories. You pick up a pair of candlesticks and can see your grandparents’ dining room, your grandfather at the head of the glossy mahogany table, wisps of gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, chewing each bite of food 100 times because he was told by someone that you can’t properly digest your food unless it has been masticated into tasteless pulp. (Dinner was long at my grandparents’.)

There’s joy in pulling out the only platter in the house that’s big enough for a roast turkey, the anticipation of a plate of perfectly (hopefully) roasted bird with lashings of gravy and the tart bite of cranberry sauce, shared with family you only see once a year, decades of holiday memories carried inside a piece of chipped, cracked ceramic.

I shiver to think about holidays in those sad, sterile houses, with their matching serving bowls and perfectly coordinated table decor. So when you dig out that tarnished silver gravy boat or the turkey hat next week, give it a little pat and thank it for the memories it keeps safe within.

The annual wearing of the turkey hat - photo by author

P.S. — and don’t forget to take those potential-treasures-for-someone-else over to the wonderful folks at Chicken Alley in Vineyard Haven and support MV Community Services!