Good Morning, Baby!

Our '56 Chevy was peering at me through the kitchen blinds this morning. It's a lovely day outside and David has already left to go up the hill and work on our house. The house is empty, but the garage has the few remaining remnants of my grandparents' life scattered on tables and work benches. I've been working on boxing everything up and taking it to a charity, but it's slow-moving work because everything I touch once meant something to someone, and it's like a puzzle that I alone am tasked with piecing together. If only I could blindly box these items up and hand them over to charity without the need to figure everything out and appreciate them one-by-one, the work would have been done by now. Sifting through a loved one's keepsakes makes me want to become a minimalist. All I need is this laptop, my little family, a good book to read, my camera, clothes, and a place to live. And yet I'm toting home little bits of their lives here and there.... a small holiday serving platter, perfect for fudge! A tiny bible that belonged to my great, great grandmother can't be left behind! A tie pin in the form of a music note that belonged to Grandpa surely cannot be handed to someone who won't know what it meant to him, can it? This would be fine if they were the only treasures I'd driven down the hill to my current place of residence, but they aren't. Every time I go up there I come home with something else. They are my transitional objects. I'm not yet ready to let them go.