Tell Your Stories

 Yesterday I taught a Getting Ready to Downsize class and found, not to my surprise, that one consideration many 'older folk' have as they prepare to downsize is that much of their stuff--which they know their children do not want--has stories attached.  We discussed the importance of sharing those stories because the generational history carries with it significance that once it passes, cannot be retrieved.  I know many who regret not asking parents and grandparents to talk in detail about the lives they led before they came into them.  Personally I mourn the holes in my family history, on both sides, that I didn't pursue in conversation with those who came before me.  They are lost forever.  

So, allow me to encourage you to peruse your 'stuff' before heading to the Thanksgiving table.  Is there one particular item that carries with it a story you feel is of critical importance to share with those following in your footsteps?  Might you bring it with you and ask to talk about after dinner?  You could then ask if anyone would like said item, and you can part with it then and there (ah, the beginnings of downsizing!) or take it home, mark it for the person who raised his/her/their hand, and know that its origins will be carried forward into the next generation.

To that end, I have a couple stories to tell you.  They involve my dad.

I realize I have written about him numerous times in this blog and maybe the tree story is one I have already shared, but he's been on my mind lately as this is the time of year when he died.  He will be gone 19 years on November 29 and oh, it all too often feels like yesterday.  There are visceral moments which pop up, catching me unawares, not only of the six weeks when he was dying but other times with him.  What his reaction might be to a circumstance or situation.  What his reactions were to circumstances and situations that are now critical components of family lore. And how missed he is.  

Here's the first story.

The Grandpa Tree

My mother was not a saver.  She was a pitcher.  By that I mean when she bought something new, she tossed the item it was replacing.  Consequently when she moved out of the house she had shared with my dad for over 40 years (the house she sold within weeks of my dad dying because she had wanted to move for years while my dad was less than anxious to leave their house), she did not have much to do in way of downsizing.  Basically she got rid of all the furniture (my brother took some; he still has their dining room set) and bought everything new.  For my mom, new was always better.

This was in the 1990s, I believe.  My parents decided to downsize their Christmas tree, going from a full size tree to a table top tree.  My dad called my siblings to ask if they were interested in the tree.  They all said no, though there is some revisionist history that they were not consulted as to their desire to have the old tree.  Then my dad, who was nothing but fair when it came to his children, called and asked if I wanted the tree.  Yes!  I said immediately.  We had a tree we put up in the family room, at the rear of our house, and I had been considering purchasing a tree to put in the living room window, as it faced the street.  This would be a perfect solution.  

Now, my parents lived in Chicago and we lived in Minnetonka, Minnesota.  I gave little consideration as to how my dad would get the tree up to me.

Ah, here's the genius of my dad.

The tree offer came on Sunday, during our weekly phone call.  On Thursday, I opened my front door to see two long packages--black Hefty bags tied up with duct tape, my name attached to the garbage bags.  The two pieces of the tree.  Delivered by USPS.  At the time, and still today, I could visualize my dad taking the tree apart, putting it into the Hefty bags, wrapping the duct tape around to secure each piece, bringing out to the trunk of his Cadillac de Ville, taking it to the post office.  All the while smoking, probably having a Old Milwaukee or whatever beer was the cheapest at the liquor store that week.

A couple days later, here came a box with the tree skirt, decorated with teddy bears, the tree stand and most importantly, the star.  The star had been purchased at the local Walgreens and its significant characteristic was that it changed colors.

Here's the Grandpa Tree.  There have been a couple stars over the years, all purchased at a local Walgreens save for this year, when the star was not available at Walgreens but good fortune prevailed and one was found at Target.

On this tree I display what I consider my most precious ornaments, the ones that I intend to pass down to either my children or grandchildren.  I can sit and look at it for hours, just feeling the spirit of my parents find a way into my heart and soul.  The vacuum of their absence is then filled, albeit briefly.

The Grandpa Jammies

My dad fell getting out of the car after cataract surgery and broke his hip.  This was mid-October and, as previously mentioned, he died approximately 6 weeks later.

Upon receiving the phone call that he was in the hospital awaiting surgery for a new hip, I left work, gathered a few necessities, and drove down to Chicago, anticipating he'd have surgery the next day, a couple days recovery in the hospital, then home.  At the time, my siblings lived in suburban Chicago so I knew they'd be around to help my mom care for my dad as he rehabbed.

Things didn't go as planned--do they ever?--and I ended up staying about a week as his end of life plan evolved.  And because I hadn't brought enough clothing with me, I went to the local Target where I bought a pair of pajamas.  Do you remember the brand Nick and Nora?  I loved their jammies and found a cute pair of flannels, which I still have. 19 years later.

The drawstring waist gave way a couple years ago; they are now knotted in order to stay up.  And a button or two may have fallen off.  But they are buttery soft, due to all the washings over the year and there is not one time when I wear them, or even see them buried in my pajama drawer, that I don't think of my dad. 

The Grandpa Jammies.  They have these cute little rubber duckies skiing on them.  And they are the singularly softest jammies I have.  Full of Dad.

Tell your stories--one story, at least--at the table this Thanksgiving.  Let your children and grandchildren roll their eyes, if they are so inclined.  This, I believe, is part of our job as the elders, the greats, the grands.  Speak the family history aloud.  When we're gone, those who come behind will be glad we did.