Illustration by Drew Shannon
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I think my mother was in her 70s when she began putting labels on her paintings and sculptures to indicate which of her four children she wanted to inherit them. It was probably around the same time that she started asking which pieces of her pressed glass collection and which of her numerous china teacups we would like to have her put our name on.
At the time I wondered how to tell her, without being insulting, that though her artwork would be appreciated, nobody needed or wanted old-fashioned glassware or fancy teacups. I am now 77 and coming to terms with the fact that nobody wants my stuff either.
Not that my two daughters have said as much, but I just have to look at their houses to see that their tastes are different from mine, and that anyway, they already have everything they need. Moreover, their houses are full; they don’t have room for any of my stuff. As for the next generation, my grandchildren are many years away from needing any of my belongings to set up their own households.
So, does anyone else want my stuff? I had high hopes of finding buyers on Facebook Marketplace – until I began to look online at downsizing sales and estate auctions. Hardcover books galore. Gardening tools and outdoor furniture. Bundles of vintage Christmas tree decorations. Comic book collections carefully preserved in plastic.
Not surprisingly, I also began to notice earth-toned pottery casseroles, “mid-century modern” sectional sofas and silver souvenir charm bracelets, all of which looked very much like my own possessions. And what were these items selling for? A pittance. Or worse. Several of these no-doubt beloved treasures had attracted zero bids. What hope is there for mine? Clicking through pages of photos of other people’s lifetime accumulations left me dispirited. Nobody wanted those hopeful downsizers’ stuff, and they won’t want mine either!
Perhaps it is better to think of how to give my stuff away. This is how my friend Hendrik’s family solved the problem of what to do with his voluminous library after his sudden death. At the celebration of his life, dozens of his books were displayed on long tables, and friends were invited to choose one (or more) in remembrance of him. After each person made a choice, his little grandson placed a sticker on the fly-leaf reading “From the library of Hendrik Siré.”
At the end of the afternoon, very few books were left, though I did notice that the two-volume set of War and Peace in French had not found any takers. Even giving stuff away doesn’t guarantee successful placement.
Nonetheless, the Siré family’s approach reveals the real value of our stuff: it carries memories. I will read Éric-Emmanuel Schmitt’s Mes maîtres du bonheur, which I plucked from one of the tables, and imagine what Hendrik might have enjoyed in this book. I will think of my conversations with him on our drives to and from our memoir writers group and recall the stories that he read to us over the years.
I have to face it: As precious as my collections are to me, their value lies in the memories that they hold. Memories that are often mine alone now. No one else looks at my miniature carved ivory spinning wheel and thinks of a little shop in a town in Germany in 1966. I am the only one who can picture my Auntie Aileen when I take out the gold-rimmed china plates she painted for her trousseau. It is just for me that the sight of a small blue tapestry in our stairwell brings back a story from a hotel lobby in Tirana, Albania. That woven square is on our wall because when I asked its price, the woman at the desk indicated that it was not for sale, but if I wanted it, I could take it. Which I did.
I realize now that my mother’s belongings had value to her for the same reasons. She probably recalled the fun she had going to antique sales and buying the pressed glass. Perhaps each teacup reminded her of the excitement of her wedding shower and her friendship with the woman who had given it to her.
They were her memories, not ours, so we could easily part with her collections at the garage sale we held after she moved to a retirement residence. My children will probably do the same when it’s my time. For now, I’m slowly losing my attachment to my stuff, and I’m writing down my memories. They will take up less space when I pass them on.
Betsy Mann lives in Ottawa.