Wednesday, November 13, 2013

The Weight of Family History.

We all have a family history. And I don't mean that history of stories about family members that you don't want to be known to the general public, but the family history that is contained in things. Things like furniture, clothing, photos, newspaper clippings and such. If you have a large family, odds are you have a bunch of family history that is being kept somewhere. By someone. Recently I had a discussion with someone who works for me and we were discussing how horrible it would be to lose one's home to a fire or some other way. We both agreed that it would be both devastating to lose all those things that are important to us and how irreplaceable those things would be. But during the conversation, we lit upon the idea of how liberating something like that could also be. For him, he carries the weight of a lot of family history, all manifested in things. He and his wife came from families that were large, and became the recipients of the family dining table and chairs, clothing, and quite a few other things that bore some special meaning to them in some way or another. But they themselves, do not have children, so there is no one to really pass those things on to. For many many years they brought these items from one living space to another, never really using them, or even looking at them, but those items still required special treatment and storage. And then it hit him, that those things, while having important meaning to him for what they were, they were no longer are even the things they were meant to be.

Let me explain with example. In the attic of my house, there sits a rocking chair. It belonged to my grandmother and apparently it was used by her to rock her grandchildren(including myself) to sleep when she watched them. At that time, it was a useful item and it was the thing it was designed to be. Today, I possess that chair. But it has been in my attic for literally 20 years. It is in very good condition. But it resides in my attic, acting as a holder of other stuff that I have not looked at or utilized in many years. It is no longer a rocking chair. It is not that which it was constructed for and hence not really a chair anymore. It is merely a part of the weight of my family history. Now if I were to have grandkids, I could then use it for the purpose it was made for, but truth be told, I probably won't. What I should do, is sell it. Or give it away to another family member, or maybe donate to a used furniture store. But I don't. Why?

Is there that much emotional attachment to it that I cannot bear to part with it? I certainly don't recall ever being rocked to sleep in it while being held by my grandmother! I cannot even remember ever seeing it in her home! But yet, I hold on to it and let it sit and collect dust in my attic. I think the reason why is because I am afflicted with what I will call "Familial Historical Responsibility Disorder." I am reluctant (But not unwilling) let go of things that are of supposed importance to my family history. I feel that I am responsible for maintaining a family ownership or connection to those things. It could be things like furniture, but it can also be smaller things like photos, newspaper clippings, or simply family genealogy. I think my wife feels that same way too. While her family is not nearly as large as mine, and she moved from home to home more times than she cares to count, she also feels that urge to hold on to things from the past that carry the weight of family history. Speaking solely for myself I feel I have the responsibility to hold onto these things and make sure that they are stored away and ready for whenever the need might arise for them to be dusted off and used or referenced.

I think my wife might feel that weight more keenly than I at times. For her, there is a basement full of photographs, newspaper clippings, school awards, drawing, poems, and other items that document the lives of our children, all stuffed away in chaotic little piles, just waiting to be used for what they were intended. But there is so much of it, so big of a weight that I think she might be intimidated by the sheer size of it all. She is a scrap-booker but family history (especially in photos) grows at a much higher rate of speed than any scrap-booker can manage and so it that weight continues to grow.

Someday, I (and she) will have to come up with a way to reduce the weight of family history, because if not, then it will be passed on en-mass and become a weight for my children, or it might be tossed out without any regard to the value it might have for family members. As for those things that can be used, like a chair, or clothing, I am of a mind to finding a new home for them, so that others can use them for what they were intended. Whether they go to someone in the family or not, I don't think I much care. Because if they go to someone that will appreciate them, or find a use for them, then those items will possibly become part of someone else's family history or at the least a useful item to them. But as they sit now, their story and connection to my family are tenuous at best. Currently, the intended usefullness is wasted and they are only adding to the weight of family history that I carry.

So True, So True, So True...

I found this a long time ago and it came up again. I thought I should share it.

If the cats and dogs could write, it would look something like this-----


DOG DIARY
8:00 am - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 am - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 am - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 am - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 PM - Lunch! My favorite thing!
1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
7:00 PM - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!

CAT DIARY
Day 983 of my captivity. My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength. The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a "good little hunter" I am. Bastards!

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of "allergies." I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell, so he is safe.

For now...

The Cat!