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 the detritus of two lives, you can come to a new understanding. |
Sifting through a family's
'treasures' gives insight
Things your parents saved through the years
contain the clues to their abiding philosophy
of TheColumnists.com
It’s the little things that jog the memory. Take
the conversation overheard
between two women discussing a relative’s recent death.
“....He was such a pack rat! Never threw anything out, and
now it’ll take his kids forever to sort through his things,”
said the first lady. “As if they don’t have enough
to worry about. Who needs that extra work?”
“And all his collections,” the second lady murmured.
“Stopwatches, toy cars, and all those matchbook covers.
To him, it meant something. To the kids, it’s more junk
to dispose of.”
Since I’ve had to settle the estate of both my parents,
those comments struck uncomfortably close to home. First, I should
make it clear that neither parent was a ‘collector’--someone
who displays groups of things for aesthetic appreciation. But
like many children of the Depression, they were savers. I don’t
think that either of them ever got over the dread that the banks
could go bust again, a financial Armageddon lurked just around
the corner, and at any moment, the bottom could fall out of their
stable existence. Stability, financial or otherwise, was something
they never took for granted, and to ensure their survival against
the next wave of impending crisis they saved.
It became a habit that applied not only to checks and balances
or numbers on a financial statement. Anything that affected their
lifestyle, however small, had to be saved in case of less fruitful
times.
Which might explain the 15 cases of toilet tissue found neatly
stashed in the storage closet after my mother’s death. They
were juxtaposed right across from the four dozen gallons of bleach,
the 150 light bulbs, the mountain of soap bars (bought at a great
discount, by the gross, directly from the factory), and the 75
assorted cans of soup, all without labels. Since the Campbell’s
Soup company is located in Chicago, my parents made frequent
visits to their outlet store where unlabeled cans could be bought
for a song. So what if you didn’t know what you were buying?
Come the next Depression, hunger could be satisfied by Turkey
Noodle just as easily as Clam Chowder. The logic here was clear:
if the Stock Market crashed again, at least our family would
be clean, sterilized, well-lit and fed.
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all the toilet paper her Mom and Dad had saved? |
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Nothing was exempt from their saving tactics. I found cases of paper clips, an even dozen staplers, and boxes full of embroidered linen ladies’ hankies, back from the days when no linen item could be without embellishment. Stacks of tea-towels, all of them artfully embroidered and edged with hand worked tatting and handed down by my grandmother were still in their boxes, now yellowed with age. To use and enjoy them for their intended purpose would’ve been the kind of reckless squandering that savers don’t believe in. Better to save them for.....whenever.
Which explains the silk negligees, never worn, found in my mother’s closet. Beautifully styled with exquisite lace trim, the gowns still bear the tags of that Parisian shop where my father bought them while stationed in France during World War II. My mother had never owned anything so lovely, and so, of course....she saved them.
There were other things, proof that she wasn’t the only saver. Cans of Kiwi polish were found stacked neatly in my father’s shoe boxes, each dried beyond use, some in shades like ‘Oxblood’ that bespoke another era. Other items--old watchbands, Zippo lighters, jelly jars full of screws, nails and buttons--were hoarded, ready in case of a future shortage.
After his death, I found some bundles of newspapers in his garage, neatly stacked and tied, waiting to be recycled. It immediately summoned different scenes from childhood, different lessons learned. The way my father gave me, at the age of six, a crash course in the work ethic.
“There’s no such thing as ‘something for nothing’,” he said. “Get used to it. Anything worth having is worth working for.”
Which is why I started making regular rounds in our neighborhood, collecting old newspapers in my wagon. In lieu of an allowance, it was a way to earn some cold cash. After enough papers were collected, my father would help me tie them into bundles and take them down to the city recycling center where they paid a whopping seven cents per hundred pounds of papers. Tough work for a little kid, with enough sweat, strain and blisters thrown in to make it an unforgettable experience. During good weeks, I made somewhere close to 70 cents. Looking at those coins in my blistered hands, I never felt richer or more deserving.
It was a bittersweet experience sorting through all my parents’ things. A sense of sadness that they’d never allowed themselves indulgences as small as enjoying a treasured gift, or savoring a carefree moment without the expectation of darker times. It wasn’t just a matter of delayed gratification. The code they lived by was one common to their generation, and a lesson they were determined to pass on: sacrifice and endurance first--the only way to ensure survival against the toughest odds.
But it’s the last box I sort through that reminds me of other lessons. It’s a collection of awards, ribbons and medals we won as kids. Some are typical of school activities--good citizen awards, Scout merit badges and blue ribbons from Science Fairs. It’s like a time capsule that chronicled our achievements, moving from grammar school (class secretary) to high school (Debate Club, cheerleading, yearbook editor, National Honor Society)--honors for kids who never thought about--or noticed--their parents’ quiet pride.
There’s a story behind each award, a litany of complaints, resistance or flagging self-confidence from the kid in question who would have rather been playing, or drawing, or doing anything but the work required to get the job done....or who had simply decided that it was an impossible goal, so why even try?
With the same patience and tenacity my parents used to save their ‘treasures’ for another day, they helped us lay the foundation to support our dreams. They made it clear that anything was possible as long as we were willing to work. In typical fashion, these weren’t lessons that were preached relentlessly. As Magna Cum Laude graduates of the School of Hard Knocks, my parents allowed us to learn by experience and by example, trusting that we’d figure it out eventually.
Which is how they taught us that failure is not a bad thing, only a learning experience, and there’ll be a lot of flops before you can soar. And that our abilities, and how we define ourselves, are limited only by ourselves and our determination. An example set by my mother, the unbeaten Chicago dance contest champion of 1942 (with a case of trophies, saved, of course, to prove it) who at the age of 80 was still teaching her grandchildren to jitterbug.
And by my father, an avid reader his entire life, who began to go blind the year his daughter’s first book was published. Determined, he got the biggest magnifying glass he could find (saved, of course, from years before) and, nose pressed almost to the page, read every word.
Moved to tears, I told him, “I was going to read it to you.”
A simple shrug. “Who says I couldn’t read it myself?”
For every stockpile my parents saved, there were more lessons, more memories. Those of grace under pressure, family values and an unwavering belief that, in what’s often a tough and cold and unfair world, the only dreams that fly are fueled by a lot of faith and a lot more effort. Each lesson echoes the same grit and spirit that defined my parents....the same lessons they expected us to pass on to those who come after.
Passing along that information is an awesome responsibility. The kind that makes every parent wonder if they’ve managed to pull it off, given their children a balanced diet of reality and dreams--enough to ensure their survival and fuel their flight. Telling kids anything is tricky business these days, but when you get into topics like work and goals and determination, they just might tune out completely.
So imagine my delight when the e-mail came from my son at college. Now in his second year at the University of Chicago, he’s reveling in a heady mix of accelerated academics, international culture, and the intoxicating awareness that his future stretches out ahead with limitless possibilities. So he tells me about his latest ventures, detailing his impressions, insights, and dreams, and asks me about mine.
But it’s his last paragraph that assures me that I’ve somehow pulled it off, passed on the lessons from my parents--the savers, the doers, the backbone of our family.
“Speaking of the whole pursuit of happiness, how's the writing going?” he asks me. “We both promised to work hard this year, and in my loud and boisterous opinion this is definitely a year to accomplish our dreams. What seemed distant and out of reach last year seems very easily attainable now. Good luck, Mom. Stand tall and shake the heavens.”
©2003 by Gina Gallo. The Gina Gallo caricature is ©2001 by Jim Hummel. The other illustrations are from IMSI's Master Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506, USA.
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