I probably shouldn’t tell you about the lobster shell my sister saved on the closet shelf in the teenage bedroom we shared. She was probably seventeen, and it was a souvenir from a date she had with her high school boyfriend, Jim Atkinson. I imagine it gave off an unpleasant odor around our school clothes but, in childhood, my sister was not a tidy person, and our mother chose not to take up that battle. So there the remnant remained.
Although I wouldn’t save a dead crustacean, or anything from dinner, I do understand the need to hang on to mementos, souvenirs, keepsakes. I have been a sentimental saver for as far back as I can remember. From the age of eight, I saved my birthday cards, now a half century old. Items that most people eventually dispose of, I keep. These objects hold stories, and they help me recall them.
Some souvenirs are normal, like postcards and photographs. The images help us remember places we’ve been and occasions we’ve had. Or, jewelry. A birthstone ring from my grandmother at age eleven for my confirmation, the sacrament when you accept the adult responsibility of being a member of your faith, brings to mind the teasing from her that my confirmation name, Helena, must be for Helena, Montana, and not for her name, Helen. My many pieces of kid-made jewelry recall the love and admiration of whatever little girl, now grown, once upon a time gave to me. A broken chain with the biggest blue jewel charm, a naked tin ring devoid of its stone that I wear every day, pins made of paper, artful creations of wire and gemstones, ribbon and glue.
The most peculiar collection of keepsakes in my household, and those which take up the most room, is clothing. Unfortunately, this is not limited to vacation T-shirts. I have the pink cotton nightgown, with eyelet trim, I wore at the hospital when I had my daughter. I always meant to make it into a pillow for her as a keepsake. The gesture probably would have meant more to me than to my daughter. We parents tend to save things we think our children will want. Having dealt with the belongings of both my late parents, I can tell you, we don’t want it. None of it. (Well maybe that cookie jar in case Antiques Roadshow comes to town.) And yet, here I am doing the same thing.
I have the green fabric flower from the dress I wore to the only formal I ever attended. And it wasn’t even my prom. For years, until the lettering was so cracked you couldn’t make out what it said, I saved the T-shirt I purchased at a Chuck Mangione concert. The imprint, which made my mother cringe when I wore the shirt as a maternity top, was the name of the horn player’s album, Feels So Good. The sequined costume from my high school marching band days is tucked away with the white go-go boots. The costume is a size I will never wear again; I guess I’m saving it for when I start shrinking and can wear it at the nursing home.
My clothing collection is not limited to my clothing. My daughter’s Liverpool High School jacket, and a costume poodle skirt her grandmother made and appliqued for her for a play, hang in my closet. For many years, I kept my daughter’s first soccer shirt. It adorned a small stuffed bear I had.
When our family entered the ex-daughter-in-law era, my mother-in-law continued gift-giving at Christmastime with both me and my sister-in-law, another ex. One Christmas, she gave each of us a flannel night shirt. Twenty-five years later, I still have mine. It makes me think of how much like home it felt there, my appreciation of the fact she was still in my life, the excitement of the family activity that was still taking place as there still were children around, and the possibilities that still lay ahead. Every time I see that flannel shirt, I picture her living room, that evening, and we three together. (I never did wear the night shirt because it made me hot and the sleeves crept up and I’m a fuss-budget, but I have it.)
After my father died, I grabbed his tennis racket and a typed report in a clear film report folder. My father was an accomplished tennis player in school and played all his life, so saving the racket made sense. The report, on “motivating employees”, did not have his name anywhere on it, was not in his handwriting, and gave no signs of necessarily having anything to do with him. But he MIGHT have written it! It was tantalizing to me that the document may have been written by the man from whom I got my love for vocabulary, writing, and reading the dictionary! The man always laughing at his own naughty entendres and puns.
I have my mother’s sneakers. A homemaker, an empty-nester, and then a widow, she suddenly had no-one to look after, no evening meal to prepare, nothing to run to the store for. So she started acquiring canvas KEDS-style sneakers in every color. Red, green, pink, plaid. Resting on the rug in the entry-way, the shoe-clones took on the shape of her feet. I have the turquoise pair. Somewhere. The comb I have that was hers also is turquoise. It’s the largest-size comb that comes in the cellophane package with the skinny comb, the rat-tail comb, and the small school picture day-size comb, in assorted colors. My mother had a perennial Ragu jar of sudsy water on the edge of the bathtub, in which she soaked her combs. It was as standard a sight in our home as the evening newspaper on the front stoop to see her jar of combs in the bathroom. So I have a Ragu comb. Somewhere.
The school picture of my sister, Lisa, toothless – so I’m guessing from first grade, is an art project in a clear glass furniture coaster, backed with felt. No doubt, a Father’s Day gift (fathers always got paperweights) from a daughter that was six 50 years ago. This keepsake, which I probably grabbed at the time I took the tennis racket, is on the shelf in my living room. Someday, I’ll give it to her son. Because I’m sure he’s dying to have it.
Kid art is in places of honor throughout my house; clay objets d’art, paintings, drawings, bead & wire jewelry, that take me back to the childhood faces that were my daughter, my granddaughter, and my nieces and nephews. How I miss those times, for my sake and for theirs. But, for them and for myself, stories can be re-told each time I take some odd treasure into my hand.
Susan Farnsworth
copyright February 2020
