Life magazine, published a
fascinating book with writer
Naomi Wax, called: What We
Keep. The book is based on
150 interviews with people
who shared “the one object
that brings them joy, magic
and meaning.” Each one of
the people interviewed, from
all walks of life: celebrated
authors, business leaders,
astronauts, nuns, autoworkers,
etc., talks about the
emotional significance of the
single selected object. Objects
selected include pieces of
furniture, old musical instruments,
items of clothing,
dishes and cooking appliances,
toys, a rusty trowel, a first
computer, an ancient transistor
radio, an old projector,
and even a 1927 motorcycle
and a Chevy truck from 1948.
The stories of 150 personal
treasures prompt readers to
review their own collection
of cherished objects, try to
understand not only what
they value but also why.
Some experts believe that one should be
wary of nostalgia as it lures one with memories
of “the good old days.” But this is not necessarily
bad. Memories of good days should be
cherished, and even mementos associated with
loss add meaning. The objects we choose to
keep tell our story. They speak volumes about
what is important to us, provide a sense of continuity,
and may offer comfort during difficult
times. Speaking personally, the things I keep
help me celebrate memorable times: chapters
of my narrative that ended, people who are
no longer here, places I spent time in, special
events. I do know that memories are encoded
in our brain and kept in our hearts, but physical
items representing those memories are tangible
reminders. They also remind us of how fast
time flies, how important it is to be grateful
for what is, to cherish every day...
I also love showing some of these items to
my grandchildren and telling them the related
stories. Actually, my grandson, currently a
senior at Princeton University, wrote a term
paper on the ways history is preserved in our
family, where – perhaps due to the impact of
the Holocaust – history is pivotal. I will never
forget the day my father went to a box in his
closet and shared with me the letters his father
(who died in Auschwitz exactly a week before I
was born) had sent him from occupied Poland.
I felt like I was meeting a grandfather whom I
never got to meet in person, a connection to my
roots. My parents had very few mementos from
their past. They left burning Europe as young
people just before WWII, with one suitcase
each. They held on to the few mementos they
brought along for dear life. In a recent visit
to my daughter’s new home, I took pleasure
in seeing some of these items on her shelves.
In a presentation on Living With and Beyond
Loss, relevant to the era of the current pandemic,
I spoke about “linking objects” – a term
coined by psychiatrist Vamik Volkan years ago.
“Linking objects” are visual reminders connecting
us to loved ones who are no longer here or
are far away and sorely missed. These actual
objects become symbolic representations that
help us viscerally feel the connection: letters,
pictures, gifts, items loved ones used. Like my
mother’s jacket, a gift from me to keep her
warm on our walks, which I now wear when I
need to feel her presence. Or my Daily Planners
from years past which help ignite memories
of special times. Or signs from a “secret club”
I created way back when with my now-adult
grandchildren under our-then home: We called
it “The BEAN Club” – BEAN being an acronym
for Ben, Ella, Alec, Nurit. When their younger
cousin Sam was born, we changed the club’s
name to “The BEANS Club”, the S representing
Sam’s name...
Oscar Wild said, “Memory is a diary we
all carry about with us.” If memory is a
diary, keepsakes are exhibits, small personal
museums of the history that makes up each
of our stories. During the pandemic, I pulled
out memory boxes, planning to go through
mementos piece-by-piece, in order to decide
whether all still deserve to be kept. I recalled
Dr. Seuss’ observation: “Sometimes you will
never know the value of a moment until it
becomes a memory.” Honoring the value of
special moments, even retroactively, is one way
to infuse our narrative with meaning.
____________________
The following poem is a tribute to one
inanimate object I could not leave behind: my
daughter’s beloved (aging) cabbage patch doll.
The
Cabbage
Patch Doll
“The past beats inside me like a second
heart.”
- John Banville
The cabbage patch doll
that was her favorite
waits in the corner of the room,
where my daughter welcomed
her with glee long ago.
The cabbage patch doll
that was doted upon
is middle-aged now,
but looks the same.
Only we have changed.
She hasn’t been out
in years, but still wears
the peach-colored dress
she wore on their outings.
It matches her red braided hair.
My grandsons play there now,
in the room still filled with toys.
They choose the cars or Legos
and overlook the doll
their mother loved best.
But I can’t let go
of the doll that sits in
the room where echoes of
children’s voices ricochet
off photo-covered walls.
When memories flood back,
I wander into the room
that used to be the children’s
and spot the once-special
doll that now bears witness.
She is still soft and her
chubby-cheeked face remains rosy,
but her painted eyes seem to know.
Struck by their depth,
I let the memories linger.
~ Nurit Israeli
November 2020 ¢ NORTH SHORE TOWERS COURIER 17