My late father-in-law was an inspiration when it came to keeping things simple.
A minimalist by nature, the World War II vet passed away several years ago, leaving only a recliner, an old Ford, some well-worn clothes and a box filled with papers and treasures, including the poison dart blow gun he’d brought back from a trip down the Amazon. I have it upstairs.
To make things even easier on his grief-stricken children, particularly my husband, the executor of his will, he’d spelled out in legal documents exactly what he wanted done with what remained of his estate.
It was a kind, compassionate, final act of parenting. And it revealed a lot about who he was and what he valued. Stuff didn’t mean much to him so he figured it wouldn’t mean much to the loved ones he left behind.
By contrast, my parents had stuff. Like most Americans whose garages and basements are full, they shopped on sale and maintained collections of knick-knacks, clothing, even bottles of Windex.
My mother died 10 years ago and when my dad moved into assisted living last summer, downsizing became a months-long chore for me and a few of my siblings.
It reminded me that when we die, we leave everything behind, including our story.
Each of us is born into our “time.” We don’t know why some people’s lives coincide with wonderful or horrific events, why some are born into riches and others suffer through war, enslavement or poverty.
We only know that this is the time and place we were given. Our stuff reflects it.
My parents were products of their era as well as their socioeconomic status. They were born into a time when blue-collar work, stiff social mores and low life expectations seemed to be the norm, a time when just getting to Friday or just getting your kids to adulthood was enough.
Perhaps because they had little in the way of hopes and dreams, stuff became their symbols of comfort and status.
I found all kinds of things inside my dad’s condo after he moved out. There were copies of old newspapers with headlines screaming the death of Mayor Daley. I found the 1957 receipt from the bedroom set my dad still has in his assisted living apartment. I found my parents’ marriage certificate and pictures of his bowling team, my mom’s poker club, their trip to Acapulco and our family’s annual trek to Daytona Beach to visit our grandparents.
More Top Picks Best Power Banks For The Money
It took three months to sort, shred and haul bags down the stairs. It was exhausting. And sad to know that so many of the things they’d treasured and worked so hard for would end up in a dumpster, or my basement.
These were the components of their story, their “permanent” record, proof that they had been here, on this earth. But many of the things they treasured meant nothing to anyone but them.
Among the keepsakes, a box filled with funeral cards, which made me sob out loud. A whole generation of men and women who once laughed and struggled and hoped and feared and, in many ways, mentored me and my siblings. All of them now gone. They were family and friends who came to our house and later, my house, for Christmas, birthdays and graduation parties.
In my head they will always be middle-aged. In my heart, they will forever be helpful and smiling.
I also kept the dozens of birthday, Valentine and anniversary cards that my mother had given to my father over the years. Inside were poignant hand-written notes. The sentiments ran counter to the distinct absence of affection in our daily family life. We were not huggers. And yet here was written proof my mother harbored a deep love for my father. And he must have felt the same because he kept the cards all these years.
As I sifted through the items, their chapters unfolded, a story of hard work, financial struggle and, interestingly, consistent generosity.
Though they never seemed to have enough money, there are records dating back decades that show contributions to food pantries, the church, organizations benefitting sick children, local politicians and loans to some family members.
My parents lived with their six kids in a one-bathroom bungalow, but never turned away a relative or friend who needed a place to flop for a week, or 15. There was always enough food to go around if someone stopped by at dinnertime.
Their stuff, though dated and valueless in the eyes of an appraiser, was no doubt meant to be a gift to their children.
Perhaps they thought one day, one of us would go through it and understand that they were just two teens who met on a beach on the South Side of Chicago. They fell in love fast, the way kids in the ’50s often did, and they ran away to get married. They lived day-to-day, hand-to-mouth, never really aiming high, but hoping one day maybe the lottery might change their circumstances.
Life was something that happened to them, a roller coaster they toughed out, sometimes screaming, sometimes laughing, but always hanging tight until they couldn’t anymore.
In many ways, theirs is the story we all tell. As much as some of us like to believe we are masters of our destiny, we are all products of our era. We are shaped by the events and opportunities of our lifetime.
And we all have our own thoughts on what our legacy to our children should be.
My father-in law left very few things behind because stuff was not a comfort to him. Sparing us the work of sorting and trashing was his gift to his children.
My parents had five of everything, plus droves of mementoes, because stuff brought them solace and perhaps they’d hoped it would do the same for their kids.
In their minds, nothing said “I love you” like the gift of an old drill or three well-worn quilts or a box full of perfectly usable Tupperware.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.