Souvenirs

/ J. F. Riordan

(Today I am reprinting an excerpt from my first book of essays, Reflections on a Life in Exile.)

My mother outlived my father by several years, and when she died, my sister and I faced the sisyphean task of cleaning out their house. This included going through my father’s shop in the basement and in the garage, where he did everything from making wooden lamp bases on his lathes, to machining new parts for his car, to carrying out scientific experiments. I’m fairly certain that he never threw anything away. Nothing.

For my sister and me, each decision to keep or discard bore an emotional weight that devastated us both. It took some months, and we were weary in heart and soul both during the task, and for a long while after. Frankly, it would have been much easier for us if my parents had followed the modern art of “tidying-up”. But if they had, so much would have been lost.

The word souvenir comes from the French: a thing that makes you remember. And, perhaps that is what exhausted us so much: every little item we found had a memory attached. My mother’s battered ancient fruitcake tin, where she kept her needles, pins, and thread, and which was always hidden under her chair in the living room. My father’s homemade work aprons that had so often been our gifts to him on father’s day or his birthday.; his navy insignia; his little leather notebooks where he kept lists of books he wanted to read, recordings he wanted to buy, the names, ranks, stations, and bunk numbers of everyone on his ship during World War II,  poems he wanted to remember, a recipe for applejack eggnog.  Even my grandmother’s things were still enmeshed in the collection: her vanity set; her hair ornaments; her love letters. My sister dissolved into tears one evening when we had finished. “I feel as if I am throwing Mom and Daddy away.”

But the reality is that we couldn’t keep it all. So painstakingly, emotionally, and exasperatedly, we combed through the house as if it were an archeological dig. And, in a way, I suppose, it was.

Among the things I found was a dirty metal file box with little plastic drawers for sorting diodes, resistors, and transistors and other early electronic parts. The box had stood on my father’s workbench for as long as I can remember. At the top was my name, printed out in the same style as the labels on each drawer.

I remember the day my name came to be on that box. I was about three, and my father had received a new gadget in the mail: a label maker that used long flat spools of plastic to impress letters on. It was an exciting thing. I remember my father showing me what it did by painstakingly printing out the letters of my name, and then pasting the result at the top of the box.

Seeing that box on his workbench, years after his death, brought me fully back to that moment. I remembered the smell of cut metal and wood, the difficulty of seeing the top of the bench unless I were given a little stool to stand on. I remember my pride in seeing my name on the top of that box, and mostly, I remember being loved as clearly as if I had been embraced.

There is a–by now–somewhat aging trend in the world of home interiors known as “tidying up”. The process, which is a method of decluttering and living a minimalist life, has an almost spiritual quality, in that it claims it will change your life, and its adherents have the tone and enthusiasms of Nineteenth Century evangelists.

Dad's diode case

There is a vaguely moralistic and superior tone taken by these doyens of home organization. They are the new Puritans. No one needs stuff. No one needs other people’s stuff. It is clutter. It clutters your home and your life. In this age of materialism, when we all have bulging closets, attics, basements, and enough stuff to create another entirely separate household, people’s interest in the process is perfectly understandable.

But, had my father not kept his old things–radio parts that were no longer needed by any working radio–my memory of the label-making would have been lost to me, for there would have been no material thing in the world to remind me of it. That moment would have been lost to me forever.

This is the value of things, perhaps, even, of clutter. It is memories that make us who we are; which haunt us; which enrich and warm us; which remind us of how to be better. And the things, they are the memory triggers. They bring back the moments we might have forgotten in the depths of time: of my mother in her kitchen, or cutting off a button thread with her teeth; of my grandmother combing her hair, of picking her up at the bus station and sitting next to her in the car, touching the softness of her fur coat; my father listening to opera at high volume while he worked on his car. These are moments that form us; that make us ourselves.

I will admit that I have kept too many things. We jokingly refer to our garage as “the home for wayward chairs.” I have much of my parents’ good mahogany furniture, their wing chairs and their china cupboard. I have my grandmother’s vanity. I have all my father’s designs, and the paperwork for his one hundred twenty-something patents. It is a lot, and it can be overwhelming sometimes.

But I’ll take clutter any day. It is the price of remembering how it felt to be a little girl who was loved by her father.

Tidying up, indeed.

23 thoughts on “Souvenirs”

  2. This brought back so many memories of clearing out my mother’s home. Like you, my father died three years before my mother. I too, still have items packed in boxes; items I couldn’t bear to part with, but give me pleasure knowing they’re close by.

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  6. Loved your essay. I remember the label maker! I was in about fifth grade and, as you say, it was such an exciting thing. When I went through my parents’ home, I couldn’t bear to throw it away. It’s out in the shed right now and brings back so many memories.

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  8. The second reading of this is as emotional to me as the first time I read it. I’m reminded of my own memories going through my father’s workbench and the back of my mother’s closet that had special memories for her that I was completely unaware of. I doubt that my children will experience feelings like our generation does, but I have left each of them a special box of my memories of our time together. I hope it will be appreciated.

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  9. Oh my gosh! I cried while starting to read this article. I had to stop for a minute to know that this particular clean up task is in my future. Yes, my fifty year old Barbies are in the attic not dressed in any clothes. I will reread this article many times with a new attitude knowing I can handle this task and will have many beautiful memories to carry forward. The challenge is knowing what to keep. Everything is so connected.

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  12. I remember nearly falling prey to the Marie Kondo fad some years ago when Llew was ill. I asked him, hoping that he would agree, if I could get rid of some of the hundreds of ‘things’ he had kept over the decades. Notice that what I was not thinking about, selfishly, was getting rid of MY things, just his. I’ve never forgotten his answer: “No. It would be like throwing me away.” So I didn’t toss anything. After he died, and I had to deal with his ‘things,’ understanding hit me in the midst of crushing grief. Three years later, I have kept almost everything.

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  13. I love all of your writings. This one is special. I also have too many things & I love the memories of people & places I’ve loved. I’m currently going thru my mother’s things which include my father’s, my grandmother’s & my great grandmother’s things. It’s not stuff, it’s love. Thank you.

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  14. Twenty years ago, right after Mother’s Day, my mom died in an Army hospital that had performed a surgery, that was successful, but 3 short weeks later she succumbed to infections like MRSA, STAPH, & bugs that defy even modern antibiotics when you’re 80 years old. Today is her birthday. She would have been 100 today.

    Exactly 3 weeks after she died, her husband, my stepfather, who was in a WACO Tx VA hospital, thanked his VA doctor & nurses for caring for him the last 6 months for his heart & respiratory disease, that his wife was coming for him, she’d told him in a dream to be ready, then he closed his eyes and died. The staff was in shock. My siblings and I were in a state of denial for a long time.

    I’m the oldest of two sets of kids of two families. Two girls by mom’s first husband, then almost 13 years later 2 boys with my stepfather. All of a sudden, I became the trunk and roots of my mother’s family tree. I was not ready, no one is ever ready, but thankfully the elder son—almost 13 years younger—had been assigned executor of both wills so the weight of organizing the disposal of the remnants of our parents’ lives fell mostly on his shoulders. It seemed to take forever to sort thru everything on the property.

    For some reason, I brought home personal things that had belonged to Mom. Doilies she crochet. Knitted cloths. Old pictures. Some German books I later donated to the University of Texas. I kept her decorative vanity set mirror, brush, combs and locks of her hair, a kitchen apron, some copper bottom pots, a fur jacket she’d had since the 1950’s. Her old Topaz perfume and body talc, German “Kolnisch Wasser 4711” Eau de Cologne she wore since I was a baby, that reminded me of her scent. And whatever old photo albums I could find. Turns out I instinctively know as attracted to the memory-triggering items you wrote about, not the furniture or the house. Just before the house sold, I made the 6 hour drive and retuned just to dig up some of her gladiolas that I planted at my home and also mailed to my sister in another state to plant in her garden. My lifetime love of plants was a gift my mother gave me a lifetime ago.

    Except for whatever went here or there to my siblings, I wasn’t interested nor paid attention as I have amassed clutter enough of my own. I do sometimes wonder where my “stuff” will end up or if anyone will feel any memory looking at it other than fact it’s already an antique or at least vintage, since I have no children now.

    Guess I should get busy decluttering, holding occasional private sales out of my garage? My sister’s suggestion that I put yellow stickers on everything valuable, showing what it’s worth $$$ so she’ll have less Googling to do IF I go first, hit me as not all that amusing. Guess I’m avoiding the memories that come with sorting thru it all too? Procrastination.

    Sent from my iPhone

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  15. So beautifully said. I have so much of my mom’s antique furniture and her other decorative things in my home. Nearly every room is filled with memories of her. I feel very lucky to have all these beautiful reminders of her.

    Patti Bonk

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  16. I remember this essay from your book. My sisters and I have several things of my parents. I don’t have children, so soon I will ask my younger family members if they would like to have them just so they don’t get thrown out!

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  17. Your beautiful essay reminded me of this song.
    John Prine.
    ❤️

    https://www.google.com/gasearch?q=johnnorine%20souveniers&source=sh/x/gs/m2/5#wptab=si:AKbGX_rdaVK-rhf5KHnOAD2drrRmADv7R3TkES869sRtvhJtAOFIxRuJ9oGiG6TvSdbxEwj1P0j38NLji8Rs9u2aU6P_0gfyZzI-enM_6cwRsbh0hv2hT8Ofa1UEalvfdH8ZOfN7FlXI1ZKOJnQOfv0QVmePABfr4UUpN-uWqtcAzrbN-LsPYDo=
    johnnorine souveniershttps://www.google.com/gasearch?q=johnnorine%20souveniers&source=sh/x/gs/m2/5#wptab=si:AKbGX_rdaVK-rhf5KHnOAD2drrRmADv7R3TkES869sRtvhJtAOFIxRuJ9oGiG6TvSdbxEwj1P0j38NLji8Rs9u2aU6P_0gfyZzI-enM_6cwRsbh0hv2hT8Ofa1UEalvfdH8ZOfN7FlXI1ZKOJnQOfv0QVmePABfr4UUpN-uWqtcAzrbN-LsPYDo=
    google.comhttps://www.google.com/gasearch?q=johnnorine%20souveniers&source=sh/x/gs/m2/5#wptab=si:AKbGX_rdaVK-rhf5KHnOAD2drrRmADv7R3TkES869sRtvhJtAOFIxRuJ9oGiG6TvSdbxEwj1P0j38NLji8Rs9u2aU6P_0gfyZzI-enM_6cwRsbh0hv2hT8Ofa1UEalvfdH8ZOfN7FlXI1ZKOJnQOfv0QVmePABfr4UUpN-uWqtcAzrbN-LsPYDo=
    [images.jpeg]https://www.google.com/gasearch?q=johnnorine%20souveniers&source=sh/x/gs/m2/5#wptab=si:AKbGX_rdaVK-rhf5KHnOAD2drrRmADv7R3TkES869sRtvhJtAOFIxRuJ9oGiG6TvSdbxEwj1P0j38NLji8Rs9u2aU6P_0gfyZzI-enM_6cwRsbh0hv2hT8Ofa1UEalvfdH8ZOfN7FlXI1ZKOJnQOfv0QVmePABfr4UUpN-uWqtcAzrbN-LsPYDo=

    Sent from my iPhone
    “Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.”
    Plato

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  18. I am my family’s “keeper of the souvenirs”. I’m single, no kids and four sisters who don’t share my love of souvenirs. My carpenter g-grandfather’s Treatise on the Square book, signed with his address. Another’s WWI army hat. Grandpa’s church hat. Mom’s bronzed baby shoes. And SO MUCH more. I have great anxiety wondering what will happen to these treasures after they wheel me out of the house under a sheet. Really hoping nieces and nephews and greats will want something, one thing, from their family. Please.

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  19. My father is an electrical engineer (retired) and he also never threw anything away. I know know of this was a habit that was forged in the poor village in India where he grew up. Material goods were scant so nothing was considered “disposable”. Torn clothes were patched – often multiple times until they were eventually torn to become ersatz cleaning cloths. Broken appliances, suitcases, or glasses were fixed not replaced. Danish butter cookie tins were reborn as sewing accessory containers or lined with small tin cans to serve as spice racks.

    When my father emigrated to America, his ability to acquire material things increased but his inability to dispose of them remained constant. The description of your father reminds we do much of my own. He too had a nearly identical set of 4 by 4 small clear drawers filled with transistors and diodes and screws and spools of soldering wire. He too used to label them using a nifty gun like device where you had to spin a dial to the correct letter and then press a trigger. The only difference is that I think the labels were orange (or maybe the label maker was?).
    I also vividly remember the day he showed me how to use it to type my name 🙂 I’m sorry for your loss but I feel blessed for having read this. My sisters and I often give him a hard time for his “hoarding” but now I’m overcome with nostalgia and fully plan to visit him tomorrow. Thank you for the reminder to cherish the people in your life while you still can.

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