Keepsakes

I’m not a collector of antiques. I have some, but none was acquired intentionally. They just came my way because they have family history of some sort. They are keepsakes. I hesitate to use the word heirloom since that word connotes (not denotes but connotes) something valuable, and none of my keepsakes is valuable in any but a sentimental sense. If sold, all together they probably wouldn’t cover my heating bill for this past winter. I own some of them simply because my dad was a builder and consequently always had a storage barn where grandparents “temporarily” deposited stuff: kerosene heaters from the 1920s, oil lamps from the 1920s and 1930s, winemaking equipment from the Prohibition era, and so on. (Aside: It is commonly believed that homemade wine for home consumption was legal during Prohibition; it was not.) Half a century later the barn and its stuff were mine. Some of the items I cleaned up and brought into the house as conversation pieces; others remain in the barn. Then there are things my parents themselves acquired new but have become antique over time: my dad’s baseball bat from the 1930s, his uniforms from WW2, paintings from the 1940s, a dining room table from the 1940s, very of-its-time plastic wall art from the 1950s, and so on.

Just a few examples: all the items including the piano
(which my mom played but I do not) are keepsakes. The oxen
yoke was rustic art made by my grandfather, the oil lamps are 
100 years old and the clock 200.

 
This comes to mind because somewhat desultorily I’ve been attaching discreet labels to the items since I’m the only one left who knows how old they are or from where they came. For example there is a handheld school bell from the Cranford elementary school that was given to my maternal grandfather in 1910 when the school bells went electric. Without the attached note, it is just a bell. The pith helmet is more interesting if you know it is from India in 1944. You get the idea. Anyway, the labeling has reminded me just how many of these keepsakes there are around the house. I’m not one for clutter in a general way (typically following my mom’s dictum, “When in doubt, throw it out”) and don’t regard myself as particularly sentimental. If/when the time comes to sell my property and downsize, I don’t think I’ll have a problem leaving this stuff behind. Yet while I have room for the things with family history I balk at selling them or tossing them. I’m not sure why. Maybe they just remind me of people and places.
 
I don’t have kids to saddle with these legacy items, and if I did they might not want them. A few years ago Forbes ran an article titled “Sorry, Nobody Wants Your Parents' Stuff” that became their most downloaded short article. It was written by Richard Eisenberg whose 94-y.o. father had died some months earlier. He and his sister struggled to handle their father’s personal property; it was a problem because the market for what were once called collectibles has collapsed in recent decades. The article notes that two generations (Boomers and their remaining parents) are downsizing (or dying) at the same time. By itself this would create a glut of old furniture and tchotchkes. But demand has dropped off simultaneously. The article quotes Chris Fultz of Nova Liquidation, “Old mahogany stuff from my great aunt’s house is basically worthless.” Eisenberg adds that “auction houses have little appetite for your parents' stuff, either. That's because their customers generally aren't interested.” Those customers would be Millennials and Zoomers who (money woes aside) mostly want to be mobile without junk to lug around. Even if the stuff is offered free and from their own families they don’t want it. For most, “sentimental value” isn’t really a thing. Xers still provide a modest (albeit only modest) demand, but they are a small generation and can’t carry the whole load.
 
So, there is a high probability that my keepsakes one day will end up in a dumpster. That is OK. I won’t be here to wince. But just in case anyone (perhaps a cousin or two) is interested before they go to the landfill, the items are labeled. I’m sure the executor(s), whoever that might be, won’t mind if they are taken away – maybe to a property with a barn.
 

Grace Potter – Keepsake