Who will value what you leave behind?

I look around at all these boxes. Indeed, I try to see around all these boxes. What is all this stuff? Where did it come from? I've tried to get rid of a lot of it but these things still cling to me. A book here and another book, then another. One jacket seems so nice-but that's a nice one as well and so is this one. Oooh, I love those scarves, can't let those go! And so it goes, on and on, until...well, until all these boxes are full and waiting to be carried with me to my next place where they will doubtless disperse and maybe be used, maybe not - remain hidden until the next move or until I'm no longer here to deal with them and they become someone else's - problem? Junk? Sentimental token? Memory?

We are moving to a smaller home and in that maneuver we are downsizing "stuff." As I look around at all the stuff we are giving away to "buy nothing" groups, selling on Craigslist or giving to Goodwill, I think of how many of these things once held great value to me. Many were so invaluable and sentimental that I never felt I could part with them. But, there they go now...off to another owner. And I ask, "Who will value what you leave behind, Kerry? These things you hold so precious, imbued with sentimental auras and light, what will become of them when you are gone? Will they be as treasured by others? Will others maintain their shiny surfaces and treasured threads as much as you did?"

These things you hold so precious, imbued with sentimental auras and light, what will become of them when you are gone?

20 years ago, when my Mom died, I felt I needed some of her things. A book or two. Some pictures. Perhaps a few kitchen utensils. Now, many of those things are meaningless. I hold in my heart a deep love for my Mother and it is a love without stuff attached to it. It is a love that remains because of her love and her voice and her thoughts, a voice and thoughts I can still hear through reading her handwritten words.

My Grandpa on my Mom's side was a drunk. A bad, abusive drunk. No one really knows where he's buried. I mean, we have conjecture, but no physical grave marker evidence. I do have one thing from him - an ancient meat-tenderizing hatchet. Not sure what that means against the memory of him, but there you have it. When I use it, I try to think of him using it as he carved meat for his vocation. But, meat hatchet aside and as much of a drunk as he was, he left another far more precious thing behind...my Mom. And, in wondrous turn, my Mom and Dad left me behind. And I'm thankful for that. How could I not be? Life has strange back trails!

Pots

I love ceramics and have a wonderful collection of pots, vases, dishes, and various platters. They are beautifully crafted by well-known Northwest artists. Gluskoter. Deal. Martell. Currans. Absolute badasses of the clay medium. My sentimental ownership of them demands that they remain with me and that they retain the value I give them when they pass to another after I am gone. But that is not likely to be so. They may be sold. They may fall through an errant act of cleaning. They may remain in some box through another whole lifetime of an owner. What is their real value?

Books

I have books that I've had since I was a child. I can't bear to think of one of my grandchildren enjoying them because...they might ruin them. And then I would not have them. What then? Yes, what then? And so they sit on the shelf, worn by cleaning if nothing else, the bi-weekly dusting gently rubbing the "dust" cover into oblivion. I can see some of them eventually being "loaned" to the grandkids. But don't hurt them! Please, don't hurt them!

And then there are my literature, poetry and non-fiction books: El Se?or Presidente by Asturias. Remember to Remember by Miller. The Long Walk by Rawicz. The complete poems of Yiannis Ritsos and Blaise Cendrars. My shelves are heavy with books and I'm the original eclecticist when it comes to books. You might see my collection and you might not even care. You may know one or two of these names. The others you'll shrug and say, "never heard of it" as you shuffle them into a Goodwill pile. Listen carefully when you do-you'll hear my voice from the grave saying, "Noooo! That obscure poet, that author, was a hero to me!"

Jackets, more jackets!

I'm a jacket slut. I can safely say that I will never go cold for lack of a jacket. I have jackets for all occasions. I have really ratty old jackets I use for the garden and the woods. I have sport coats. I have this oh-so-comfortable wide-wale brown corduroy jacket. Flight attendants have asked to touch it. They covet it. Or is it me they covet, tucked so cooly in that brown wale? Stop! Let's face it! I have too many jackets! Give them away, you say? Never! I can't imagine that someone would faun over them as I would. That they would hold the fabric in their hands and value what I value in these cloaks. No, never will they leave my presence. And, what happens when I'm gone? Will they be burned up with me in the local crematorium? Will my children take them and abuse them- leave them crumpled in some corner? No, no, no! Better they molder and age with me than go to a place where I have no control over their use or their demise.

What I treasure, another will discard. And, what I discard, you may eventually treasure.

So, I exist, as I'm sure you may to some degree, with a problem of valuing things. What I treasure, another will discard. And, what I discard, you may eventually treasure. I imbue these things with almost anthropomorphic powers. That jacket! I wore that on the dock in Marseille. Those shoes! They hiked all the way up and down Mt. Brinchang in Malaysia! I can't let them go! They will most certainly be unhappy with other owners, owners who will not know of their exploits and adventures, owners who will mistreat them and are loathe to revere their hallowed histories!

And so here I am, trapped, you see? I do need some things to carry me through. My sentimental heart demands the cloak of a nice jacket, the sight of a beautiful vase, the pleasure of rows of good books.

Should I even worry about these things? Kerry, you say, you have a serious first-world problem! You don't own those things - they own you. You've allowed those things to take over your heart. What should be in your heart, Kerry? Yes, what should be? Well, in spite of myself, I've learned the answer. Distillation.

I want a distillation of the true ingredients of my life.

What? Yes, a distillation should be the memory I leave. I want a distillation of the true ingredients of my life. The distillation of who I am today into how I want to be remembered. As we distill, we separate and concentrate specific components, specific words, deliberate actions, shared experiences into an almost pure mixture of who you are and who you want to "remain" after you are gone. Not things; just pure essence.

And this brings us back around to my Mom and her words, her handwritten gifts of words. I have a thing, a thing from her that is a small example of distillation. It is a combination of experience, actual physical touch, voice and words and it brings real meaning to moments today, even brings them to life you might say. It is separate from my ceramic trophies, my obscure book collection, my fading jackets. It is a handwritten recipe book Mom gave me - long before she died -a distillation of a lifetime of food memories and life advice. If I need a recipe from my past, I can take it out and I hear my Mom - I hear her words as she chides me about too much cardamom or about forgetting the salt in an entire batch of bread. I feel her presence as I see the consistency of my chicken curry reach just the right viscosity and color.

I can look at any one of the recipes and see the gentle swell of valued times. Her exquisite cursive speaking delicacies for me to create. Real Cool Hot Bread - the ultimate dump mix bread recipe. Grandpa Powlis' Perfect pound cake - you can see Grandpa crouched over his mixer. Buttermilk biscuits - say no more! Four-layer dessert. Kitchen laughter. Stupid, stupid cooking mistakes. Many a shared meal. The weekly baking of bread to render four loaves, delicious and moist, ready for sandwiches made from leftover pork roast. The stale biscuits dipped in hot tea at the end of a long day.

So, what is it that I will leave behind and others value? As I sit next to this cardboard box edifice that contains much of my "life" acquisitions, I realize that very little of it will hold any value to someone else, to my children, to my family. I know myself and others well enough to see that contentment with a thing is extremely transitory at best and truly fickle beyond that.

I know myself and others well enough to see that contentment with a thing is extremely transitory at best and truly fickle beyond that.

I have determined that what will remain is a record of a complete thought written by hand or printed, a recipe, simple sketch, a dedicated diary or folio to give to each of my daughters and to leave to my wife (should we not disappear together on some obscure Aegean island as planned) or my friends. Our stories, written (badly or clearly) and delivered, are of the greatest value to those nearest us. They don't have to be "influential" or best sellers. Indeed, it's best they're not even published for that removes the personal sheen and focus intended for the dearest reader. My Mom built a gift, presented a treasure to me, in the form of a cheap spiral bound notebook with some picture of Isle Royale Park, Michigan on the cover. Who knows why she chose that notebook and who cares? It's what lives inside the notebook that shines on and on.

As I pack things away, I've come to believe it is best to create something tactile, something that is really of me and by me, not just purchased or owned by me. Something written in my bad handwriting, a script or two or three of my thoughts. Maybe some of my favorite recipes. A few quotes from my favorite authors. A snapshot or two that is actually printed out and pasted on a page. Life stories of the things I carry along in these boxes. Like my mother, if I can leave behind my words, my recipes, my thoughts, my errant ideas and brilliant inspirations, some distillation of who I am, then I've given a great value that will be remembered and will, I think, be treasured.

And you?

How will you distill the important elements of who you are so that they remain as an essence, a flavor, a very real memory that will lift others - a sense of who you were apart from "objects" you possessed, and who you will always be in the memory of those you love? When you slip away into the great wide open, what will remain and who will value what you leave behind?