The real value of old things

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My grandfather left almost nothing behind. Henrique Mendes was a poor, rural labourer in Portugal when he died in 1956, a few years after my grandmother passed away. The only thing his six children inherited was a debt to a local merchant of $500 each. One of my aunts remembers that his personal possessions included a pocket watch, a silver coin purse, a concertina and a black fedora. But none of it was kept. His children lived three hundred kilometres away in the city to support themselves – including my 14-year-old father – so belongings were either sold off or thrown away. Henrique was buried in his only suit.

henriques

And so I have nothing of my grandfather’s except for two portraits – one taken in a studio when he was a young man and a scan of a notebook in which he chronicled the births of his children. I also have nothing from the rest of my family. All poor, all rural, they had very little to begin with. And, because they left their homes to come to Canada, nothing was kept. My mother held on to my christening gown but that is where the family treasury begins and ends.

Christening gowns are what got me thinking about things lost. I am the midst of watching the British World War II mini-series The Jewel in the Crown. There is a scene in which Mabel Layton offers her niece Sarah a gown. Sarah had worn it for her baptism, as had Mabel and one hundred years past, Mabel’s mother. And now it was intended for Sarah’s newborn nephew. The scene is deeply moving because we know Aunt Mabel will soon pass away. And of course it got me thinking about much more than British war-time colonialism.

Fabia Drake and Geraldine James in the 1984 mini-series "The Jewel in the Crown"

Fabia Drake and Geraldine James in the 1984 mini-series “The Jewel in the Crown”

Something that is handed down – especially clothing – is imbued with meaning and memory. When we lose a loved one or when that loved one is a generation or more removed from the living, they only live on in our memories. Objects become vessels of memory. And these objects serve to remind us that others—many, many others—have lived and struggled, have triumphed but also lost so much. Through these objects we understand our direct connection to the past, that we don’t stand alone in history. We are but one tiny, tiny chapter in an ongoing story.

And that, I think, rubs people the wrong way right now. We live in a time where the individual is lauded, not the family or the community. We also believe the past holds little more than intolerance, ignorance and repression. We turn away from history and the values of previous generations. But that can leave a world empty of meaning. Even the objects that surround us cannot hold meaning because they are mostly disposable. They will barely survive the year, never mind our lifetimes. We will have nothing to pass down, not simply because we don’t value history but because the items themselves cannot survive. Something must be made well, of excellent materials, to have any chance at longevity.

A good friend recently asked me over for some advice. His father had been clearing out old things from the family’s basement and found a number of suits. My friend wanted to know if any of it was worth keeping. I leapt at the chance. The suits belonged to my friend’s grandfather and great-uncle. There were a few morning suits and a tuxedo. Thanks to the quirks of genetics, a couple of them fit my friend with very few alterations. And as much as he’ll never have a call for a morning suit and the tuxedo perhaps only once or twice, these pieces, their stories and their memories, will live on. They will not only be living reminders of the past, they will be a direct connection between future generations and their own family history.

I was so happy for my friend that he found these old things and that they will continue to be part of his family’s story. I was also profoundly aware, however, of the chapters that are missing from my own.