The other day, I was visiting with a good neighbor, and we
were discussing the various memorabilia that we treasure in our lives. I have
to admit that I save anything that has a good memory attached, a habit that has
filled up my closets and storage. Some of that stuff, though, I have inherited.
For instance, I inherited a dress, stored away in a box,
which was made and worn by my grandmother long ago. My mother saved it because her mother, who
made it, had saved it. As each person who had cared for it passed away to the
next life, it was my turn. I wondered which of my children would care for it
for all the years ahead.
They never knew their great-grandmother who sacrificed so
much in her life in order to purchase the fabric and thread for a special
dress. Even I don’t know what the occasion
was that she sewed, so carefully, the lovely dress. I do know that she had to
be very thrifty with 8 children to raise, a husband who farmed and raised
sheep, earning little income for the family, especially during the great
depression. To help supplement, she made lovely flowered corsages to sell, and
sold eggs from her chickens.
Cash was scarce in their family, so creating a lovely dress
for a special occasion, would be a great sacrifice and toil of love. She was a
person who did little for herself, using all her energy to care for her family
and her neighbors. She served as the Relief Society President in church for
many, many years, delivered babies, and cared for the sick in ways we’ve all forgotten.
She handed out meals to the poor and homeless, who knocked on her door at all
hours. She never turned away a soul in need.
Luckily, I have her personal family history to glean my
information about her. It was written by those who knew and loved her. I’ve
often wondered how it would have read if she had written it herself. I doubt
she would have mentioned a word about all her selfless deeds, or personal
struggles. Those would have been secrets taken to her grave and shared only between
her and her maker.
The dress has been properly, verbally passed on, along with
all the sentimental value possible to attach to an object, and gratefully
accepted to be revered by another generation – something tangible to keep the
stories alive.
I ran across a poem once that is a reflection of our desire
to preserve all we can, to cherish our memories, and to understand the reason why.
Good memories come in many packages. I don’t know who wrote it, but will share
with you. ©2016
Linda Gatewood
The packrat syndrome I’ve always had,
I hate to throw things away.
The comfortable things that you have around,
should be saved for another day.
How much more true of the people you knew,
the friends of yesteryear.
Don’t let them stray or throw them away,
just because they’re no longer near.
Collecting starts when you’re very young.
but it changes when you’re old.
The scrapbook has to be extra big,
your lifetime friends to hold.
For its people who count, not those things
when you were big or small.
By the grace of God, you see the whole world
through the friends that you recall.
