|My mother saved everything and now wants to send it all back|
I decide to buy something I liked for myself, figuring I would probably end up with it someday. I didn’t know how prescient that thought would be.
Now that my widowed mother is moving across many state lines into a retirement community, everything I’ve ever given her is coming back to me. Or it would if she had her way. I’ve been fighting off the return flow of goods as best I can, but sometimes it’s easier to take whatever is offered and drive to the nearest Goodwill Donation Center.
Some of my handmade projects should never have survived this long, and yet my mother hesitates to throw them away. Nobody needs a lopsided clay pitcher that proved pottery class wasn't for me. Likewise the carved plaster turtle that looked more like a moving truck.
My mother saved everything that came from the hands of her children, whether bought, crafted, drawn, or published.
I spent many phone calls trying to convince my mother she could get rid of a career’s worth of my writing samples. I had my own copies of the annual reports, magazines, brochures, newsletters and newspaper clippings. It took some doing, but she finally agreed to recycle them. The paper, if not the content, was worth something to someone.
Some arguments have been harder to make than others. In the 1980s, I was hooked on Frostline kits for making down-filled vests and jackets. They came with pre-cut fabric, pre-measured packets of down, all the notions and tools, and easy instructions. I must have made a dozen of them, including a navy jacket for my dad. He wore it for years and then moved to tropical Florida. That was 25 years ago, and he passed away in 2014. The jacket, however, remains, and my mother wants me to take it back.
Lately, my mother has been getting sneaky about returns, mailing me packets of memorabilia. The current batch had postcards and newspaper clippings she kept by her sewing machine. She couldn’t bring herself to throw them away, but I’m not as sentimental.
Sure I enjoyed rereading the 2005 postcard I wrote while sitting in Monet’s garden in Giverny. As for the 1998 newspaper clipping, I barely recognize the corporate me, sitting in my office at Hercules, featured in a round-up article on brief cases. And the sports column I wrote in 1991 is not only relevant but more appropriate today, with the title, “If we run for fun, why does it hurt so much?”
Maybe that’s the whole point of returning gifts and giveaways. It brings back memories, allowing you to mark time gone by. I admit it’s fun to see these archaeological items from my past, but nothing is slowing me down from a trip to the recycling bins.