Contributing writer
There’s really more to that old phrase than the title suggests. I come from a long line of people who had a strong distinction between what was presented to the world at-large and what was for private consumption only. If a family matter became public knowledge, my grandmother referred to it as “airing your dirty laundry.” She was also a strong advocate for putting on clean underwear when you went out the door to run an errand.
“You never know …,” she’d admonish.
And now her erstwhile granddaughter has been writing a public column for 10 years divulging personal things. Go figure. While my Aunt Anna prodded me to write Another Day in the Country, her mother would probably have been more reticent for me to talk. She would be pleased, I believe, however, with the fact that I’ve tried to stick to her strongest admonition, “if you can’t say something good, don’t say anything at all.” At least not anything specifically negative — you can allude, somewhat.
Jessica came by to start another day of sorting.
The sorting through our collective lives at Green Acres is about to wind down. The auction is about to happen and it feels formidable. Honestly, offering what you’ve owned — whether it’s collectables, antiques, or stuff you don’t need — feels like you are exposing yourself to public scrutiny.
My sister and I vacillate about what to include or exclude.
“What about that old Chambers stove that used to be Jakie’s?” I ask.
It’s a killer to haul. And it is a real antique. Our Aunt Naomi told us a long time ago, “I wanted one of those stoves when I got married — it was the thing to have but they were too expensive.”
“Who buys mink stoles at an auction?” I ask my sister. “ELLE magazine says that they’re coming back in,” she says with a grin.
Grins are good. Grins are hard to come by when you are sorting through your stuff.
Yesterday, I packed up the hand-painted china that was given to us as a gift from our dear old friend, Dr. Shaw. I’ve kept it for 20 years and we seldom use it. The clientele is either not into frau-frau or we’re too busy to put it all out and we just use other plates that we don’t have to be so careful with. So, it sets on the shelf. It goes, too.
What to keep? What to release?
“Someone should be enjoying this stuff,” I say under my breath; but will they know what to do with it? “Does anyone still use doilies?”
Not as many as used to, that’s for sure. I still remember my mother and grandmother starching and shaping those doilies for display. Everyone got one for a wedding present. Relatives made them. Who makes them now? Today’s kids wouldn’t even recognize the name — doilies.
“It’s an instant society,” my sister mumbles as she hauls yet another load of stuff to Lincolnville. “Who still sees beauty in old stuff like we do?” she wants to know. Who tells the old stories? Who keeps the old pictures? Will the younger generation ever hanker for these old things?
While we’ve had The Dirt Gambler’s Museum in Ramona, we’ve enjoyed showing the kids in town what telephones looked like — including the old Ramona switchboard. The kids’ eyes get wide when they look at the cream separator and even I don’t really know how they work — Tooltime Time always did that part for us. Typewriters. Anyone use them? Anyone think they are beautiful? Keepable? Heck, I’m approaching antique status and the museum idea is done.
I have relinquished the fate of those things I’ve loved, those things I valued, those things I remembered from my childhood, and those things I was going to do something with (the plight of an artist). To me they have been beyond price. They were all possibilities.
“I could do something with that,” is my mantra. I could tell a story, I could make a display; I could give it new life on another day in the country.