A Tuna Fish Singing Like a Monster

One of the things that happened on my recent trip home was that I was allowed to take my own baby book home, a blue hardcover volume covering the first two or three years of my life. It contains such quotes for the ages as, “I’m a tuna fish singing like a monster,” my answer to the question, “What are you?”

Presumably this is an item of, ahem, extreme sentimental value to my parents, but they are moving and have to make some decisions about what to keep.

I’m pleased to have my baby book, but I think it was also a small but potent reminder about my own mortality: if my parents are at the age where they could consider parting with my baby book, then that age is looming rapidly for me, too, as I’m only 20 or so years behind them. I’m breathing right down their necks, as it were.

So maybe it’s time for me to make some decisions of my own about what to retain, and certainly not to accumulate too many more sentimental items, perhaps based on these criteria:

Is it useful to me right now? (Example: My clothes.)

Or does it have a strong likelihood of being useful in the future? (Example: Hammers, wrenches, hacksaw, etc.)

Does it give me pleasure right now? (Gosh, where to begin? OK, my eye just fell on a Mason jar full of brightly wrapped chocolate eggs. And then there’s Hammett.)

Or does it have a strong likelihood of giving me pleasure in the future? (I rarely pick up my kaleidoscope, but when I do, I always enjoy it.)

Finally, does it have direct sentimental value?

My mother observed that perhaps she no longer needs to keep items merely because they once belonged to a loved one.

I probably take this to an extreme. I have coins once touched by some person I had a crush on for two weeks 30 years ago, wrapped up in little pieces of paper and so labeled: the Lisa Neidert Memorial Quarter. Until very recently, I had a shredded towel that once belonged to someone I was close to years ago.

I have items that belonged to my grandmother that I never laid eyes on until after she died. On the other end of the spectrum, I have her last bottle of perfume, half empty (oh, all right, half full) and the last blouse she ever put on of her own volition; it still smells faintly of her perfume. And I have her wedding ring. Maybe those three items and, I don’t know, 10 or 15 more are sufficient, considering that I have 40 years of happy memories and plenty of photos, as well.

Fortunately, I live in a studio, so my storage capacity is extremely limited, though even so, if I move something to a new spot, my memory is such now that I just have to live without it or hope I bump into by accident.

I lately resolved to part with a few things and let go of a non-working bike pump (yep) and also the keyboard that came with the iMac, giving them both away via Craigslist. I also gave the microwave David and Lisa gave me to Tom. It turned out I never use it, and he wanted it. At least it remained in the family.

When I told David and Lisa on the phone that I’d given the microwave away, David yelled, “Whaaaaaaaaat? This is an outrage!” Then Lisa reminded him that if there was a party who could reasonably have a sentimental attachment to that microwave, it was she, since it had originally come from her folks.