I have a rule in my house. If I haven’t used something for six months, off it goes to Salvation Army. Only a few things are exempt from this rule, such as the stuff I have that belonged to my mother, or things I’ve saved from when the boys were little.
The other day, I found another item I can’t bear to give up.
I was once a Personnel Director for a manufacturing company outside Chicago. After I left the Navy, my husband and I settled in to Chicago where my son, David, was born.
I think, frankly, that I was an ideal sacrificial lamb in my position. I was in my twenties and knew so little about so much. I was paid quite well, but I also had to deal with three unions, one of them the Teamsters. Let’s just say my on the job training was brutal. I was pushed – once, literally – to the wall and also had the dubious distinction of being written up more than any other person in management.
One of the shop stewards, for example, for the International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers, was a transvestite who insisted on coming to work occasionally all dolled up. Since he worked a turret lathe, I couldn’t allow him to wear flowing locks and a fluttery dress – mucho dangerous. One day, he brought his parrot in a cage. That’s the sort of thing I faced all the time. I even got to do first aid for a man who’d tied down the safety lever of his punch press and managed to cut off his hand. That was a fun time.
One morning, the president of the company came to me, gave me a check, and told me that I needed to deliver death benefits.
I traveled to the home of one of our employees, a lovely man who had recently passed away from a heart attack. I knocked on the door, hoping I could just hand the check to the widow and beat a hasty retreat.
The woman who answered the door was probably the age I am now. She welcomed me immediately, and was incredibly gracious. I tried to give her the check, but she shook her head, took me into the living room, and gave me coffee and cookies. I realized, finally, that she was lonely, so we talked about her husband, her hobbies, and her life. They didn’t have any children, so the loss of her husband was a tremendous blow.
After I’d been there for about an hour, she excused herself, left the room, and returned with three crocheted hangars. They were a gift to me, she said, “for driving all the way out here and being nice to me.”
Yes, I cried.
She finally took the check, and we hugged in parting.
The other day, I found the last of the hangers – I don’t know where the other two went, probably lost in my travels. I’ve moved many times since those days in Chicago.
Every time I see that hanger, I remember her. I can’t remember her name, but I remember her smile, and her kindness even in the midst of her grief. Every single time I see that hanger, I feel a tug in my chest. The hanger resides in the back of my closet, but nothing hangs on it. It’s just there because I can’t bear to give it away.
Is there anything like the hanger in your life?
For a wedding gift *whispering* -some 32 years ago- my great grandmother ‘tatted’ a lace table cloth–I never used it: it is in the linen closet: I take it out once a year to hand wash it in ivory Snow: then put it back.
My great grandmother passed away 1 year after I was married-so it is the only reminder that I have-at the time, she was in a nursing home and her only income or money was a pension. It meant more to me than any other gift we received.
I can understand exactly why you feel that way, Sandy. The gifts of the heart mean more than anything else, don’t they.
You’re embarrassing me a little, however. Yesterday, I noticed the lace tablecloth from Thanksgiving was still on top of the dryer. Ahem. It’s clean, but I haven’t put it up yet.
Karen, you just tugged my heart with that hanger. What a wonderful story in the midst of all that mess.
I look around my house and see so much I could give. Things that need to go. I may just work on that.
Outside of things my children gave me or made me, the two items that would take death itself to pry from my hands are a hand mirror and brush of my grandmothers. The brush still has her hair in it. When I was little she would brush my hair as I held the mirror. Priceless in my eyes.
Leah, I have the tape from my mother’s answering machine. It has her voice on it. I haven’t had the nerve to convert it to MP3 yet. I know I’ll just be sad for days after hearing her voice. That’s another priceless object to me.
What a great post, Karen. Although I have some sentimental things stashed away, I cannot say that I have anything with a story attached as unusual as touching as this. The more I learn about you and the adversity you have faced in your life, the more I admire you. You’re my heroine.
Now, methinks it’s time for Karen to write a book of her memoirs. Yes, I like that idea!!
I am neither important enough nor interesting enough to merit a memoir, Connie. I am, however, writing a non-fiction book where some of my experiences come into play.
That was a lovely story. I have a few items that belonged to my mom, they are not fancy or expensive but they mean a lot to me. Sometimes I’ll hold one in my hand and say a few words to my mom. I know she is always with me.
Karen, thank you for sharing such a heartwarming story. You certainly have experienced a lot of life.
I have a couple of things that I treasure, one of which is a Lindy Star Sapphire ring that my Dad and my brother had made for my Mom. It’s really exquisite. It’s now mine and I wear it every day and every day I think of my Mother when I put it on, or take it off. My Father had a matching ring, much larger. When my daughter was around 10 years old, my Dad lost the ring. A few weeks later he had my daughter helping him clean his car; lo & behold she found the ring. Upon his death the ring went to her. She treasures it immensely and plans on finding a way to wear it on her wedding day later this year.
Today I’m planning to pack up my china cabinet. I wonder if I’ll find yet another treasure in there.
Oh, Gail, I haven’t even scratched the surface!
What a lovely daily memory to have, Gail.
I can’t help wondering if you found something else in the china cabinet.
When I was 16 years old I was in love. The boy I loved I had known my whole life and he lived at the top of the hill. He tore a dollar bill in half one day and he gave one half of it to me. He said, “Keep this for as long as you love me.” I married that boy. We had 3 beautiful children together. And then he died at a very young age of cancer. Although I moved on with my life, I have 4 more children and I’m married again, I still have that half a dollar in my wallet. I still carry it. I will never part with it. After all he did tell me to keep it for as long as I loved him and I still love him. That half a dollar bill means more to mean than anything.
That is sad but also a lovely story. How wonderful of you to keep that half a dollar bill.
Rita it is sad in a lot of ways. Things happen like all 3 of our children are married, have children and he has missed this all. I keep my dollar bill because it reminds me of that uninhibited love we all have at that age. It reminds me of him when he was young, sweet and romantic. And it reminds me that there is such a thing as true love. And I was lucky enough to have that in my life.
Truly, Felicia, you are one of the lucky ones.
I agree, too, Rita. What a lovely memento.
Felicia, how lucky you were. Yes, I know it’s a very sad thing to have lost him so young, but aren’t you blessed to have known such a great love.
Thank you for sharing such a lovely story.
I’ve got several of those crocheted hangers, but not such a lovely story to go with them. I’m not even sure which relative crocheted them, but I keep them anyway. My more precious hanger is a slim wooden hanger my Mom had written her name on & she had when she worked (in the 1940′s to 1952).
I’ve got tons of other sentimental things – some I use, some I just keep – like my grandfathers nightshirt & my grandmothers black fancy shirtwaist blouse & parasol.
I still keep my Dad’s caps, various things of my Mom’s that I doubt anyone will actually wear. Every so often I move a few more things out – hopefully I’ll have gotten rid of a lot more before I ever move.
Loved the other stories – I’ll be back to this post to see what others have been added.
Isn’t it strange the items we think are precious?
I was burglarized a few years ago, and saddened when I discovered they took my mother and grandmother’s jewelry, more for a sentimental reason than any monetary loss. The other day, I found a box in the storage cabinet. I’d taken out those things I truly cherished from both of them and stuck them in that cardboard box. I’m so glad I still have them.
Ah Karen you touch my heart yet once again. I’ve been AWOL for a while while working full time for my husband’s secretary (in Mexico to get 3 crowns & bridge work done) and taking care of Mother’s move. She’s doing OK but her memory/dementia is worse from the stress (I hope). I’m wrung out and took the weekend off
I have several things I cherish for the memories. My husband gave me a “you are loved” button early in our relationship that’s in my jewelry box. He had it engraved into my wedding ring
(there is some romance in the guy). I also have a smiley button another old guy friend gave me and a signet ring from my first real boyfriend. I have a pink silk baby blanket made by my great-grandmother for my grandmother in my closet. I’m afraid to touch it but I know it’s there. I also cherish the leftover jewelry that belonged to my mother-in-law. She had great taste and my sister-in-law left me so little, just some of the costume stuff, nothing of value but I love the pieces all the same, THEY GLITTER 
That’s the same kind of stuff I have, Lenna. A Boy Scout pin from my brother, along with a cameo ring of his. My Navy insignia. My great-grandmother’s watch. The St. Christopher medal my mother kept in her wallet.
I’m just going to throw this out, for what it’s worth. When my grandmother lived with me for a year, she had severe dementia, to the point that I had to use a restraint vest at night. She’d wake John and me up screaming, “Police! Police!” She didn’t know who I was, and threw her dinner at me most of the time.
When I could finally afford a nice nursing home, the change was startling. On my first visit, she knew who I was, could remember things she hadn’t remembered in years. All that time I’d thought she had Alzheimer’s. When I questioned the doctor, he said that he’d started giving her B12 shots. From that day until she died two years later, she was lucid and herself.
Mom is on B12 shots and I’ll have to make sure they are up to date. With all the moving around she’s done she could be behind. Thanks for the thought and your’re right that could be part of the problem. You have a good heart–thanks
I hope it’s something that simple, Lenna. Truly.
Most of those things I canna part with are from family, my brother who passed at age 33 had hand carved a wooden knife to hang on my wall as decoration. It has fallen through the years and has broken in several places but I keep it to remind me of him. I have lots of stuff like that.
Z
Aren’t those the most precious things?
I have an embroidered doily set my Mother made & gave to me years ago. I don’t use doilies, annoying things, but I could never part with the set.
That’s the same way I feel about my lace tablecloth. Frankly, I’m almost afraid to use it, in case I stain it.
I don’t have very much that was passed on to me. I do have some doilies along with the night gown my grandmother wore on her wedding night – all packed away in the cedar chest.