CLUTTER OR TREASURE: A PARADOX

My grandmother furnished her house with items she inherited from distant ancestors, with names like Aunt Abbe, Uncle Amos, and Aunt Nell. Visitors to her home were in awe of her dishes. Gold rimmed, ornate, some painted in vibrant colors, each piece of china had a function, and a story. About whom it came from, where it was made and if it was a gift, the occasion and importance of the giver. Dishes were carefully brought out, used for special occasions and the stories repeated. As you can guess, I have inherited some of those dishes: plates that were one hundred years old a hundred years ago, and tiny pink luster bowls that have companions at the Smithsonian.

It’s not so much the dishes, but the stories that surrounded each piece of china, as well as every marble-topped dresser, brass bed frame, and night stand that came from the family home. As a child, I internalized those stories, and as an adult I now own the pieces—like the brass candleholder that my grandfather used as he learned to read by candlelight.

An old Victrola sits in the garage, alongside heavy antique records. A treadle sewing machine, a writing desk, photos, and a clock that used to strike on the hour.

Clutter is a dirty word, and I know I should be finding homes for the kinds of things that make my children shake their heads. In a world of sleek granite kitchens, these objects have outlived their usefulness.

My grandfather’s tarnished candle holder sits on a shelf in the kitchen, and I can’t bring myself to explain why it’s there. It annoys me and, at the same time, it symbolizes all that I can’t rid myself of, leaving me baffled.

Like so many uninvited house guests that have overstayed their welcome, I just want them to leave. I can’t show them the door, even though I vowed a long time ago not to get caught up in preserving the past. Paradoxically, I am no more able to let these things go than my mother or my grandmother.

Mary Van Valkenburg, a retired therapist, grew up on Decatur Island. She lives with her husband, two horses, and a cat on a five-acre farm in Hansville, a rural community located at the northern tip of the Kitsap Peninsula.

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