Photograph courtesy of Cookie Curci-Wright
Garage Save:
Sometimes sentimentality and nostalgia can make it difficult to unburden storage spaces of relics of the past.
Remember When
Sorry, this stuff's not for sale
Trash or treasure? Deciding can be a heartfelt compromise
By Cookie Curci-Wright
It comes over me every spring, the same annual urge to clean, clean, clean. Closets, storage sheds, cupboards, drawers and my perennially cluttered garage.
Toward that end, my mom and I prepared for our yearly spring garage sale. Beforehand we promised each other that this year was going to be different; this year we would get rid of all our accumulated junk. Between us, we have stockpiled a combined 130 years worth of nostalgic clutter.
It would be a massive job, trashing or selling most of our personal items. But we staunchly decided that whatever we found inside those dilapidated boxes would indeed have to go. It was a promise we would both find hard to keep.
I approached the dusty boxes in our garage with a vengeance. I indiscriminately tore open containers and tossed out everything that came my way, until the sound of Mom's voice and some common sense told me to stop.
"Look, Cookie, look what I found. It's your little Communion dress," Mom cried out with excitement as if she'd just discovered the Hope Diamond.
There it was all right, my ancient white satin dress and lacy Communion veil, tinged yellow with age, lovingly folded in its box and neatly protected by several layers of decaying tissue paper.
"You looked like a little bride all in white satin and lace," Mom sighed. "Your father and I were so proud, remember?"
I remembered. And I could see by the light in Mom's eyes that she was re-living the event just as it happened 48 years ago. The dress was lovingly returned to its box and placed aside out of harm's way.
Like an archaeological dig, the deeper I excavated, the more relics I revealed: family heirlooms, broken alarm clocks, old kitchen appliances with frayed wires, outdated jewelry and shoes, items that held their own unique and special memories. Deciding which of these keepsakes could stay and which would have to go was a heartfelt compromise.
Digging through the clutter, I saw Mom reach for something wrapped in timeworn newspapers. I heard her breathe a deep, quiet sigh as she opened the package. Inside the crumbling paper was Dad's old shaving mug, soap and brush. Mom held them for a moment, then silently rewrapped them, carefully replacing them back into the box where they had rested since Dad's passing more than 23 years ago.
The sight of Dad's shaving equipment brought back a rush of pleasant memories. I remembered how, as a little girl, I amused myself by watching Dad go through his daily shaving ritual. I'd make myself comfortable on the edge of our big porcelain bathtub and watch as Dad whipped a bar of soap into a frothy lather in his mug. And how, with exact precision, he'd swirl his brush around and around until his face was covered with a thick frothy layer of soap. Then, at just the right moment, he'd take out his straight razor and, like an artist about to begin a great work of art, he'd study himself in the mirror, not quite sure where he wanted to begin. A moment later he was guiding the sharp-edged razor in long, even strokes around his face, taking care to avoid his well-defined mustache. By the time his morning ritual had ended, most of the family had eaten breakfast, dressed and left for school.
Digging through another box, I found Mom's old chrome waffle iron from the 1940s--the old-fashioned kind with the temperature control dial and the Bakelite handles. I'd almost forgotten waffles were ever made from scratch, having gotten used to them in more recent years popped from a toaster. I treasure the memory of those cold early mornings together and the warm aroma of Mom's fresh, steamy waffles.
And so it went as we dug through the boxes. We found my old metal roller skates with the missing skate-key; a chipped china plate from Mom's first dinnerware set; fading letters from Dad during World War II; old pictures; keepsakes, cards, baby books and toys.
The last box we opened held Mom's vintage hat collection and outdated rhinestone earrings. It was hard to believe that Mom was ever in style wearing such flamboyant headgear. These wonderful hats and earrings were popular during the 1940s and '50s, along with red lipstick, Tabu perfume, sequined gowns, platform shoes and padded shoulders.
Mom laughed when she caught sight of her gaudy accessories, and almost with a sense of embarrassment she tossed them into the garage sale pile. Mom, who's in her 80s now, wears sensible shoes, indiscernible jewelry and hasn't worn a hat in years. The sight of these flamboyant hats and glittery jewelry rekindled memories my glamorous, fashion-conscious Mom of the fabulous '50s and I rushed to retrieve them.
By the end of our cleaning day, Mom and I had failed to discard any of our boxed keepsakes. Instead, we decided to hold onto these precious little bits and pieces of our lives.
There's a bond to these old pieces from our past, a bond that can't be broken, at least not for now. I'm sure that next year I'll attempt to clean out my garage again, and maybe I'll succeed. Perhaps someday, when these items are no longer of enduring interest, when the sight of a baby blanket no longer instills precious memories, and a family heirloom doesn't fill my thoughts with a longing for the past, maybe then I'll finally be able to clean out my cluttered garage. Till then: "Sorry, this stuff's not for sale."
Willow Glen, California Since 1992
