Discarded items can hold meaning

My latest project is to clean out the spare room. It was my daughter’s room a long time ago. Then slowly it became the room to put stuff when I didn’t know where to put it. Now it is chock full of just about everything. It’s like a junk drawer only bigger.

This is a very slow process as every time I come upon a stack of photographs I have to look through every one. So far I have unearthed my hubby’s grade school pictures, photos of how the outside of this house looked when we first moved here and group pictures of my family where my mom is sticking out her tongue. I have no idea why she is doing this as the rest of the bunch have either smiles or that look that says they want to do anything except stand there.

There are letters. Most of them are from my daughter, a few are from my mom and the rest are from friends I haven’t seen in years. I reread them, every one.

I have found report cards, graduation announcements and a pressed orchid from my daughter’s first marriage. There is a fat manila envelope containing the abstract to our current house. It is several inches thick and tells the history of our home. Again, I feel compelled to read each and every page,

There are craft supplies galore. I have gotten granddaughter Emma’s permission to send some to her for her own artistic endeavors. The sewing machine accessories that I have no idea how to use can be sent to my sister-in-law as she still sews. Half-done projects are sorted and set aside. Most will see the inside of a trash can but I am not ready for that yet.

Then there are books. Lots and lots of books. It could take a month before they are given a new home. As I leaf through them I get lost in time. A few will be tossed as I didn’t like them the first time I read them. Most of them will get repacked in new boxes to be sorted another time. I read a page or two to reassure myself that they belong in the category I’ve assigned to them. This could take hours.

So far I have found several lamps and an ironing board that has turned into a convenient place to throw things. The iron is there, too. I wonder if any of the grandkids have any idea what an iron and ironing board are. I have found at least two telephones, neither of which would be familiar to any of the grandkids. Emma’s dad took her and a friend to a museum where Emma and her friend could not figure out how a dial phone worked.

Buried under an Easy-Bake oven, a hand-drawn self-portrait of my daughter and an assortment of Little Golden books are the pieces of an old baby bed for dolls. Even though it is missing several key parts my mom always told me it was valuable. I have my doubts but not enough doubts to toss it. I keep thinking that one of these days I’m going to try to assemble it.

All these things have little to no value to most people. Some have little or no value to me. Every piece that makes it to the trash is one less piece that I or someone else will need to deal with later. Trash or not, all of this stuff has meaning. Each piece has a story. The Easy-Bake oven reminds me of the Christmas I bought it. I didn’t have any lightbulbs at home to make it work so Santa bought my daughter a light bulb. She thought that was funny.

Cleaning a spare room is like taking a trip back through time. Baby pictures, school grade cards, invitations and all sorts of odds and ends tell the story of our lives. What is trash to someone else, just maybe a reminder to us of who we used to be.