Today I opened the final box of memorabilia of my father’s. Just like the one prior, it sat in the entry-way for about two weeks, being shifted around with swiffers and other tasks. But I knew that if I didn’t open it soon, it would create more anxiety and prevent me from relaxing over the weekend.
It was more frames, pictures of planes, plaques, and my father’s 3 and 4 gold epaulette bars from his pilot uniforms, commercial and Navy, and other poignant pins and buttons. And then I found a scrapbook. I opened it. The whiff of dust smelled like my grandmother’s home in Virginia Beach. In an instant I was transported back decades to the dogs running around, hot wassail during the holidays, all the other smells from a home you’ve lived in for decades.
I have a ton of pictures of myself as a baby but I don’t have many of my father’s childhood. Today I saw him as a baby, young child, with his other brothers, then in the middle of the scrapbook came high school and early college photos. I saw him pole vaulting. I saw him sailing, surfing at the beach and some newspaper article where he was surfing on a huge wave. I saw his first Navy letter and assignment after college. It was cool and sad all at the same time. It’s weird how emotions become this swirled ice cream cone.
Then I saw the 1st love of his life (which was not my mother, that was at University of Washington years later).
Her name was Sherry and he had saved one index card from her — on it hand-written: “Cord, You were my happiness.” – Sherry.
My heart stopped a beat and I caught my breath.
I always knew my father was a romantic from the poems and songs he wrote and how he was absolutely emotionally paralyzed and devastated from the divorce with my mom. But there was something else there, I perceived. This was a 17-18 year old kid, saving a simple but profound index card and glueing it in a scrapbook for further keeping.
I continued looking through the photos; my Dad on his horse named Rusty, on the dock with an American flag on the back of the family boat — if I remember named Kittiwake. I thought, my dad lived a bit of a ‘Kennedy-esque’ life. Yet in his own way, was always seeking adventure, always rebelling in some form, also getting kicked out of a few private schools (for ‘dumb stuff’ like surfing during school) That was my Dad. I find it ironic that he spent his high school years in California and his daughter (me!) moved here at age 17, as well.
After I emptied it, I threw the box away rather quickly. I organize all the memories and bins into their assorted areas, categories and family surnames later.
Of course, there’s a ‘method’ to my grief. It keeps my mind from being overwhelmed.
As I watched the empty box drop into the dumpster, it may sound crazy but I thought of a line from Usual Suspects (and no matter what, it’s still a great damn film!).
“And just like that, he was gone.” It was the last box I will receive. He is gone but not forgotten. There are no more boxes for me to open. I will only ‘go through them’ again with my son and other people. We are all reduced to these ‘final boxes’. It’s sad but poignant. It sounds harsh and crass but it’s not. I think about all of our photos, and memories, nicknacks, and everything and we are all 2-3 generations from being forgotten. I want my son to hold on to everything, but he won’t. No one can.
I think about all these wonderful photos and memories, and think “how long can they be retained?” I don’t know. I know that I will hold on to them in my lifetime and I will encourage Ravi to, as well. He will hold on to many, but eventually, some will be lost or thrown out in a move or hopefully not burned in a house fire — yet that happens. I think too much. But I’m 51, you think I will change? Exactly.
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I got my Covid vaccine this week. Bear with me, there’s a through-line here with the aforementioned. As I left the site, I passed a cemetery. It went on for blocks and blocks. I thought about how thankful I am to be above ground during a pandemic — many are not.
Then I thought about epitaphs. I wondered if we could write our epitaphs first if we would live differently. We always work from the beginning: birth, youth, goals, dreams, all our frenetic aspirations. What if we worked from the end, how would we live?
If we worked from the end, would we write and live what really mattered? We would accept that we’ll have our ‘last box’ and what will that be…
I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking of working on my epitaph.
Be well,
Christine
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