Last weekend, I brought the last load of furniture from my parents’ home and loaded it into my own house. This weekend I will spend some time putting the chaos into some kind of order.

There’s a sense of displacement. The family home is sold, empty, no longer the centerpiece of our family, the place we gather each holiday, the place I visit when I go to Richmond. The life that was there is gone. And the things that were part and parcel of their home are now distributed between myself and my two sisters.

I already had a house full of furniture. My parents did a good job on all three of us, raising us with an appreciation for antiques and vintage things. Each of our homes were full of things we’ve found and learned to love over a lifetime of our own. As I have written here before, practically everything in my house has a story. Those stories, more than any intrinsic value, is what gives the things worth.

And now, we have been, in a matter of a month or two, added a host of other things, each with their stories, to the mix.

It is odd, walking into a room and seeing things that were my parents’ in my house. There is a sense of displacement. This is not where they belong, these things with stories of their own. Stories of another time and place. In time, I am sure they will settle in and become part of my story, but right now they feel out of place, out of time.

There’s also an odd sense of claustrophobia.

It’s not just that right this moment there us just too much furniture in my house, but it’s that it’s my parent’s furniture. We spend our lives growing up in our parents’ world, and then breaking away to create our own lives. That is the natural order of things. I particularly was ready to break away. My father’s anger and alcoholism was something I wanted out from in the worst way, from my teen years on. Breaking away has taken more than just moving.

For many years after I left home, a long time, there was part of me that felt like a child again every time I went back. I didn’t recognize it for a long time. Others had to point it out to me. It was only after time, and even some therapy, that I found my true break from them, to get to a place where I could treat them as peers more than parents. It was a good growth, hard earned, and positive not just for me, but for all my family, a change in dynamic that forced growth for all of us. Not always easy, but valuable.

And now that furniture, part of my parents, in a way, is here, lurking in my house, crowding my walls, crowding my mind with memories, both good and painful. It will take some time to sort through it all, to decide what to move to the attic in wait for my kid’s to get their own places, and what I will keep. How much is enough to honor the love and good memories, and how much is too much and crowds into my mood and mind in a dark way.

It’s also changed the way I think about all these antiques, both the ones I have bought over the past 30 years, and the ones I have hauled up from Virginia these past couple of months. I no longer feel any of them are mine. I am just a caretaker in time. My job is to enjoy them, but also to live in such a way with my own kids, that they will feel love in each thing in my house, and not mixed emotions. To let them know you don’t have to keep everything when someone goes, just the things that have meaning. It’s the meaning that has value. Not the things.

So today I will haul some more of the things to the attic. I’ll re-arrange the things that are left. I’ll dispel the claustrophobia, both physical and emotional. And all the stories, mine and theirs will start to blend together.

Be well. Travel wisely.

Tom

PS: the dresser, lamp, candlesticks and swan all came from my parents’ home. And yes, each has a story. Probably more than I know.