Artifacts have no historic value, yet

In some ways, I blame it all on Neil Armstrong.
Over the years, as our daughters were growing up, we took them to the Neil Armstrong Museum in Wapakoneta, Ohio.
There, in one of the main rooms, hanging from the ceiling, was Neil Armstrong’s bicycle, the one he rode as a kid.
I don’t remember whether it was a Schwinn or a Western Flyer or some other make of bike, but I do remember it was remarkable to see a childhood artifact suddenly made important because of a moonwalk.
Our daughters, apparently, internalized that moment.
Always aiming for the stars, all three seemed to come to a conclusion at an early age that at some point in the distant future some museum — perhaps The Smithsonian — would be looking for artifacts from their childhoods, something that might be the equivalent of Neil Armstrong’s bike hanging from the ceiling in Wapakoneta.
The net result: We have more of their childhood artifacts (I was going to use a harsher, more vulgar word, but I’ve restrained myself) than anyone could have imagined.
The most recent reminder of that sad fact — one any parent of adult children will relate to — came this month as we began the chore of transforming Sally’s childhood bedroom into a guest room.
(I know, I know, when the kids move out and grow up, you have more guest rooms than you can make sense of unless you open a bed and breakfast. But this change makes sense, and guests will be more comfortable as a result.)
We pitched the idea of the change to Sally by pointing out that when she and her husband Ben came to visit, they’d be able to sleep in a real bed. No more sofa-sleeper in my study. No more trundle-bed arrangement in Connie’s office.
And she agreed.
So then it was only a matter of collecting, sorting, analyzing and rearranging more than 25 years of her life. (Recycling was also involved.)
Sounds simple, right? Not so much.
Connie went at it full tilt, but it was an enormous job. Who knew how much Star Wars stuff a kid could have? Or Harry Potter stuff? Or Legos?
(We were particularly careful with the Legos because I made a major mistake about 10 years ago by lending a bunch to Sally’s good friend Daniel Scott for a special project. It turns out that the Legos I lent Daniel were more special than his project, and Dad’s still in the doghouse.)
Sorting meant boxes and tubs and more boxes and tubs. And it meant “editing” the materials.
We’ve already made one trip to Goodwill, and another may be in the offing.
So far, we haven’t seen an artifact equivalent to Neil Armstrong’s bicycle.
But then again, proud as we may be of our daughters, none of them have — yet — walked on the moon.