They're only things, after all.

A local newspaper recently ran a column, asking people to write in with a list of the things they would save if they were suddenly forced to evacuate in the face of a fire or other natural disaster. The lists contained everything from pets and children to computers and photographs.

I made my own list years ago, when I lived in an apartment, and realized I was at the mercy of not only Mother Nature, but my neighbors, as well. My list included all the usual: important papers, my children's baby books, photos and jewelry.

But as I started putting together a new list, I realized there are only two things in this house now that I would make a real effort to save, and they are both four-legged and furry. Lily, my Pom/Chi mix, and Annie, the big, sad-eyed Aussie mix who came to live with me last January. I keep a couple of spare leashes in the nightstand next to my bed, in case we wake up to disaster in the middle of the night. I can't depend on them to follow me out, and I can't imagine escaping without them.

But everything else is expendable. That's not to say that my home doesn't have some nice things, some irreplaceable things. It does. My mother's jewelry. Scrapbooks of the grandbabies for the past seven years. My father's wool shirts, all eight of them, packed away for the day I have time to turn them into quilts. Just sitting here looking at my desk, I see a coffee mug from my mother's fortieth class reunion, and a stamp dispenser made by my youngest child in high school.

When my mother died three and a half years ago, the family home was put up for sale, and my siblings gathered to clean it out. A dumpster went on the driveway, a flat bed rental trailer out front. In the flurry of activity, trying to get everything done in the three days allocated to the work, things were discarded, either thrown away or sent to Goodwill. Other things were parceled out to my brothers and sister, as we each picked what was most important to us.

Afterwards, when I was living by myself for the first time in seven years, I found myself missing so many of the small things I had taken for granted. The Pyrex casseroles sized just right for a single person or the aluminum hamburger press that dated back to my childhood. I regretted letting my sister have my mother's china, purchased in Japan in the 1950's. I'd had no place to store it, but still....and the silver-plated flatware, that Mom had kept in its storage box, under the bed in the spare room. I never understood why she didn't use it.

I found both the china and flatware on ebay, and I purchased as much as I could afford. I use the flatware every day, and it just gets lovelier with each washing. 

About six months after I purchased the chine and flatware, I realized that it had become, in my mind, my mother's. Even though I knew it wasn't, the very act of washing the "Shelburne" pattern dishes or "Eternally Yours" flatware brought back memories of Thanksgivings, birthdays, and other special events.I guess what I'm getting at is that memories don't burn, and things can be replaced.

I decided that the best way to hold fast to the things I cherish the most was with photographs. All the knickknacks and photos and documents were photographed or scanned, and stored not just on my computer but in the cloud, on a photo storage site. CD's were created as well. 


Someday, when I'm gone, hopefully my children and grandchildren will have a whole houseful of things to divide up and cherish. If not, well, they were only things, after all.