Mine is a family of savers—not of money, mind you, but of stuff—the accumulated detritus of ordinary lives. I have every letter I wrote home to my parents from summer camp and college, my grown daughter's childhood books and favorite toys, my grandmother's kitschy tablecloths, some aged (but hardly period) furniture from assorted ancestors, and my husband's grandmother's gold-rimmed (and badly chipped) Limoges china service for 12, complete with demitasse cups and saucers. As if. My dining room comfortably seats four. But Mrs. Bottomley's china is a tangible reminder of my husband's family history.
I even collect other families' stuff, scouring tag sales and antiques shops for vintage treasures. Still, my mother chides me for throwing things away. In addition to her syrup pitchers and carnival glass and old kitchen implements, she collects paper spanning multiple generations—recipes, knitting instructions, sewing patterns, books and magazines. Family photographs, letters, postcards, business ledgers. Old diaries and newspaper clippings. She even has every issue of the Washington College Magazine.
We are an archivist's dream. If only we were famous.
In our cluttered basements and attics, we hold a detailed family history—the collected stories of builders and watermen and mechanics. Each of those cultural accoutrements tells a story if you are patient enough to listen: the knife my uncle used to shuck oysters, the woodworking tools that hung in my grandfather's garage, the apron my grandmother wore to put up pickles, the souvenir glass from Tolchester Amusement Park where my mother sold tickets during high school summers, the pitch pipe my father used to tune his violin. Who knew he played violin? Or that it's still in the basement?
Sometimes we go about the business of making history without being fully aware of it. When my grandmother went to work for the Glenn L. Martin Aircraft Company in Baltimore during the war, she probably didn't realize that she was part of a social trend. Only in retrospect does it dawn on us that this was an important milestone in American history. Others living through the civil rights movement—like our Convocation guests—had the foresight to understand the significance of their role and to record it. Then there are people like my mom, who believe that every person's story is significant. She holds on to their things as a way to stay connected to them, and then passes the items down, along with their stories.
Whenever I need a reminder of who I am and where I came from, I have an idea where to look. If it's not in the china cupboard, I'll try the basement.
— MCL
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