My older sister and I joke all the time that when it’s time to move our parents out of their home, we’ll just back a truck up and dump it all in. We’ll wave good-bye to everything and drive home with two or three prized possessions. We also joke that our other two sibling will be the ones pulling the junk out of the truck and loading up their trunks with everything Mom and Dad have collected for the past almost 45 years. I’m not sentimental about stuff. Ask our friends who helped us move. Dan said, “Erika would throw everything out.” And it’s true. I have tidbits and crap that I love, but I don’t believe I need it to survive emotionally. I don’t think anyways. Who knows though until the day everything I own goes up in flames (knock on wood I don’t have to find out).
But there are things in my parents’ house that I quickly associate with the feelings of home. I see them and I quickly flash back to an easier time. A time filled with no responsibility or pressure. A time of immaturity and bliss that was grounded by childhood. These are items that filled the time which prepared me for life. The metal green chair didn’t influence my parenting. But the time I spent sitting on it while shucking corn did. The items are apart of our lives. That doesn’t mean I want them, but I am grateful for them.
Day 22: My parents’ stuff.