My sister Nancy gave this to me, filled with carnations, when she got married. I was about ten and it was the first time anyone gave me flowers.
I’ve always, always been conscious of legacy. I don’t hail from a family with riches and trust funds, no. I never expected a financial inheritance. My storyteller heart has always claimed its birthright in the tales of my ancestors and of the people who have entered my life and changed me. I’ve collected stories like doubloons and kept them safe and secure. Often, there’s a trinket or physical object that goes along with the story, and those random objects remain important artifacts of my life. I’m certainly not a hoarder, and in recent years I have been willing to part with some of those ‘trinket-memories’, but if you look at my shelves without having the backstory on the stuff, you might wonder if there’s not a tendency towards unhealthy collecting.
For example: my office bookshelves house books along with dozens of turtles. Ceramic, crystal, wood, stone, wax, hand carved, realistic, artful, plain, colorful, old, or off the Hallmark store shelf. (I culled many out recently and threw a bunch away, but a substantial herd remains.) Every one has a story. This one was a gift from a first grader named Jessie, that one from a naughty fifth grader. This one that looks like a troll came from Santa Claus when I was very young. Beside turtles I have a collection of little boxes. This glazed pottery one that says “Someone like you comes along…once in a blue moon” was a gift from my friend Lynn.
In our junior year, we had a habit of skipping school on Fridays – we were both straight A students and had we had our mothers’ permission. In fact, often one mom or the other joined us on shopping trips or while hanging out baking cookies. Oh yeah – I also have a little candle held by a cast iron bear that I bought one Friday on an excursion to Greeley shopping with Lynn and my mom…
I could go on for days about the cache of precious memories that my dusty gewgaws contain. I get so much joy from them and the stories they keep alive. They are my memories, my legacy. However, unlike trust funds or mansions or a stock portfolio, this accumulation of what I consider the wealth of my life probably won’t be embraced as precious gifts by those who remain when I’m gone. When I die, chances are they will mostly go in the garbage or to the thrift store, their intense value unrecognized. And, that’s okay. I remember shaking my head and wondering at the contents of my dad’s dresser drawers after he died. My children and grandchildren are building their own cadre of treasures that make up the wealth of their lives. I’ve already taken steps to safeguard the things I count as really important things by making sure those who remain know the stories behind them. I’ve incorporated my favorite memories in a family story book I wrote and in the pages of my novels and blogs.
For my daily devotions, I started last week reading Ecclesiastes in the Old Testament. I’m sure that these ramblings in today’s blog are a result of Solomon’s claim that everything is meaningless and nothing but God’s love lasts. I see the wisdom in his assertion and I don’t disagree. The mockingjay pin that lives on the lampshade on my desk (given to me by a fifth grader named Bayley) doesn’t matter to eternity. Yet, I’m healthy and I’m not planning on leaving this world any time soon, so I’m going to close this blog now and do some cleaning. You know, to everything there is a season…a time to write and a time to dust!
