This morning it occurred to me that I'd be wise to start sorting through the stuff upstairs before we move. The upstairs has become a catch-all for whatever I'm not sure about throwing away; we won't have that much dead space in the new house, and it's time to toss some things.
I was doing great with my sorting, for about five minutes.
Then I saw the rocking horse. It's very cheap, made of hard plastic; but every one of my grandchildren has rocked on it, plus some kids I babysat. It won't take up too much room. I'm keeping it. I may live to see some great-grandchildren enjoy it as much as the grands did. It's been here twenty-two years, after all.
The baby crib: There's a Skelly Pegasus decal that Cliff put there as a young teen when his baby sister slept there. There are chew-marks on the rail that my son put there with his first teeth, standing up in bed. This is a hard decision, and I don't know yet what I'll do. It's like asking a toddler to give up her blankie. But it does take up considerable room.
I'll be able to toss the heart pillow that Cliff had to clutch in the hospital after surgery, every time he coughed. The signatures are almost unreadable anyhow.
The painting was leaning against a wall in the junk room, facing away. When I turned it around, I didn't even remember it. OK, that can go, I told myself. Until I looked at the signature of the artist: "Dona Lee, '86".
Oh my word! That's my friend who had a stroke ten years ago and is now in a nursing home. Not only that, but her home burned down several years ago, and there aren't that many of her keepsakes left.
I intend to use the smallest of the three bedrooms in the mobile home as a computer room, and that's where I'll keep some mementos such as these. If there's room for the crib there, it'll stay. If not, it has to go... somewhere.