My husband Dan and I spent nearly three years in Langtoft, a lovely little village tucked in the
shires of England. This essay first appeared in the “Grapevine,” our village publication.
Tell me. What’s the silliest thing you’ve ever kept tucked away for sentimental reasons? For me, it was a
little pearl-laden pill box filled with my baby teeth. Okay, go ahead and pause for a chuckle, but surely you
must have something just as silly in your lofts.
It’s been months since Dan and I have unpacked the things we need to set up housekeeping in America
once again. But until recently there were still over 200 cardboard boxes sitting in our home and spilling
into the garage – boxes filled with stuff that we put in storage before moving to Langtoft. Mostly, as Dan
likes to point out -- my stuff! You know, the kind of stuff that hugs the heart through time, like the paper dolls
I played with in the shade of a cherry tree when I was a little girl … the handmade Valentine from my first
love.
Then, there’s the other stuff -- stuff that I saved for some crazy reason -- like the moth-eaten pink chenille
bedspread, brittle cicada shells, dried-out typewriter ribbons, an old Brownie camera, 8-track tapes; out-
dated (and out-grown) size 8 skirts, a hot pink purse and three marbles in a baby food jar. That’s just one
box of stuff.
Okay, I admit I’ve saved too much stuff! They say America is the most consumer-driven country in the
world. The average home here is 2,320 square feet. That sounds like a lot of space, but we actually need
all that space to accommodate our stuff! In my own defense, I’ve never thought of myself as materialistic.
It’s just that my heart tends to dig its spurs into silly sentiments and says “giddy up.”
It’s taken months to sift through the daily graces of my life, the quick slip of time that’s been stuffed into
those boxes. I muscled the good stuff, like dishes, linens, toys and hundreds of books, to charity shops.
Then I pitched lots of stuff that simply had nothing more to say, over 100 boxes in all. It was actually quite
liberating!
Still, I was left with a few dozen boxes of precious mementos – childhood treasures snuggled among
rosary beads, old letters and poems, my wedding dress, baby clothes, loving cards from Dan, grandma’s
stuff, grandpa’s stuff and all the handmade stuff the children or grandchildren have gifted me with the past
30 years.
So I sifted again, trying to decide what else could go in the rubbish bin – not an easy task for this
sentimental old fool. Holding a Crayola-marked doll to my breast, I traveled back to the buttercup yellow
days of childhood when I was happy all the time and the world was safe. I relived the cuddly-soft days of
motherhood and the pink tingle of falling in love with Dan. In the end, nothing more was sent to the rubbish
bin.
Tonight I wonder why the stuff I’ve saved is so important to me when I’ll always have the memories, and
they don’t clutter up the closets. Maybe I simply need a connection to the lifelong companions that ride the
backbone of who I am, something tangible. All I know is this stuff is part of me, and as long as I can feel
my heart beating through the boxes, I’m keeping them!
shires of England. This essay first appeared in the “Grapevine,” our village publication.
Tell me. What’s the silliest thing you’ve ever kept tucked away for sentimental reasons? For me, it was a
little pearl-laden pill box filled with my baby teeth. Okay, go ahead and pause for a chuckle, but surely you
must have something just as silly in your lofts.
It’s been months since Dan and I have unpacked the things we need to set up housekeeping in America
once again. But until recently there were still over 200 cardboard boxes sitting in our home and spilling
into the garage – boxes filled with stuff that we put in storage before moving to Langtoft. Mostly, as Dan
likes to point out -- my stuff! You know, the kind of stuff that hugs the heart through time, like the paper dolls
I played with in the shade of a cherry tree when I was a little girl … the handmade Valentine from my first
love.
Then, there’s the other stuff -- stuff that I saved for some crazy reason -- like the moth-eaten pink chenille
bedspread, brittle cicada shells, dried-out typewriter ribbons, an old Brownie camera, 8-track tapes; out-
dated (and out-grown) size 8 skirts, a hot pink purse and three marbles in a baby food jar. That’s just one
box of stuff.
Okay, I admit I’ve saved too much stuff! They say America is the most consumer-driven country in the
world. The average home here is 2,320 square feet. That sounds like a lot of space, but we actually need
all that space to accommodate our stuff! In my own defense, I’ve never thought of myself as materialistic.
It’s just that my heart tends to dig its spurs into silly sentiments and says “giddy up.”
It’s taken months to sift through the daily graces of my life, the quick slip of time that’s been stuffed into
those boxes. I muscled the good stuff, like dishes, linens, toys and hundreds of books, to charity shops.
Then I pitched lots of stuff that simply had nothing more to say, over 100 boxes in all. It was actually quite
liberating!
Still, I was left with a few dozen boxes of precious mementos – childhood treasures snuggled among
rosary beads, old letters and poems, my wedding dress, baby clothes, loving cards from Dan, grandma’s
stuff, grandpa’s stuff and all the handmade stuff the children or grandchildren have gifted me with the past
30 years.
So I sifted again, trying to decide what else could go in the rubbish bin – not an easy task for this
sentimental old fool. Holding a Crayola-marked doll to my breast, I traveled back to the buttercup yellow
days of childhood when I was happy all the time and the world was safe. I relived the cuddly-soft days of
motherhood and the pink tingle of falling in love with Dan. In the end, nothing more was sent to the rubbish
bin.
Tonight I wonder why the stuff I’ve saved is so important to me when I’ll always have the memories, and
they don’t clutter up the closets. Maybe I simply need a connection to the lifelong companions that ride the
backbone of who I am, something tangible. All I know is this stuff is part of me, and as long as I can feel
my heart beating through the boxes, I’m keeping them!
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