Possessions mean nothing to me. And yet. Possessions mean everything to me. Let me explain. I’ve never been the kind of person who needs a lot of stuff. That’s not to say I don’t have a lot of stuff, because I do. And it’s because some of that stuff means a great deal to me. And I’m notorious for hanging on to the past, for better or worse.
When I was a teenager, I, like most teenagers, chewed a lot of gum. I would always find that I happened to be chewing a piece of gum during important events that unfolded. (For the record, it was not the cinnamon kinds [too burny] and NOT, if I could help it, mint. I hate mint. Why couldn’t dentistry have chosen any other herb? Rosemary toothpaste? Delightfully woody. Thyme? Freaking parsley? Sign me up. They went with mint. Now my mouth has to be cold. Sigh.) My personal favorite was the grape Bubblelicious, oh my. Such a wad, so much juice. Anyway. Sometimes while chewing this gum I met a new friend. Or something lucky happened, like I found five bucks on the ground. Or it was my birthday. Or… and this was my favorite… I kissed a boy. These were pivotal moments. This gum could not be thrown out! In the trash! Like… like… trash! No, this fossil of memory must be carefully preserved!
You know that flip-up drawer on the fridge door that had those little built-in egg holder things? Each piece of different colored gum was nestled into its own little egg-thingy spot, in the order of incident occurrence –safe from harm, my memories cherished and protected.
I would visit my gum museum sometimes… Look at those teeth marks. I made those on my 15th birthday! This purple piece. I kissed *whomever* that night after the football game and then we dated for four whole months! Is his spit in there? His soul? Cool. (Oh hush, you were a weird teenager once, too.) Gum. It was my thing. Until my mother found it one day and lost her mind.
“Kel, come in here. What is this? Like... what even is this?”
“Gum. I like to keep it. Because it’s lucky. It’s memories, mom!”
“That’s disgusting. You don’t go back and chew it again ever, do you?”
“No.” (Yes.)
“Good. Well, how long do we have to keep it in here?”
I think she could tell by the look on my face that “forever” was the answer. My mom knows me though. And I think she knew why it was important to me. My dad had just passed away a year or so before, and when she let me keep that gum, crazy as it sounds, it was a gesture that showed me she understood me. I was terrified to lose things, memories, people, important moments and milestones. And I was also desperately trying to convince myself that I was safe by safe-keeping the things around me. Nothing got thrown away for a few years there, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. To be honest, I’m not ashamed about the gum drawer either. Disturbing as it is, it speaks to who I was then, and who I still am today, in large part. And I like myself. And even if I didn't, I'd still only know how to be me anyway.
I’m a fiercely sentimental person. I have a coaster that a cherished friend wrote on in a bar one night over a decade ago. It says, "You are too!" No idea what that meant in that moment ten years ago, but it's been in my nightstand ever since. I have every little trinket that every student I ever taught made me, bought me, colored me, drew me, etc. and I remember who every single one came from. They created it for me and their hearts are inside there... too precious to let go. I save birthday and Christmas cards. In fact, my birthday card from my mom two years ago, on my 32 and most horrible birthday to date, is still in the passenger door of my car right now, because her words were so comforting that I carry them for protection like a seatbelt or another airbag. You might say it sounds like idolatry; but it’s not. It’s not the object I value. It’s the connection to the person that still lives vividly and unceasingly in my possessions.
And here’s the reason for this crazy blog topic. When I write, I sometimes like to write in the presence of objects that hold memories- both for me and for others. This sounds nutty, but sometimes I feel like I can tell the story of an object- the things it saw, the life it lived. I was in tears once in a market in Charleston, SC, because there was an artisan selling old ceiling panels from historic buildings. Courthouses and churches and old plantations and a million other kinds of buildings. I felt so connected to them! They were worn and chipped and each a different color and material. I thought, Imagine the things these panels have seen! And right there, (or should I say, “write” there) much of the conception for my second book, The American Locket, was born.
I hate to shop. I don’t need fancy things. Jewelry, who cares. Cars, who cares. I have never bought one article of clothing or shoes that cost over $50 in my life, and most of my stuff is $20 or less to be honest. But I’ll tell you, I almost dropped a couple hundred bucks on the spot that day on old, peeling pieces of ceiling because to me, they were history; they represented the people who had lived and died and laughed and cried and loved and hated beneath them, and I thought that was a story worth telling.
So, it’s not that I advocate hoarding junk or anything- but I am someone who keeps real, organic “life souvenirs,” and I’ve given up apologizing for it. Being sentimental and nostalgic is a good thing. It inspires my writing and shows the world how much I care about the people in my life and how loyal I am to them. To my family, my friends, my past, my respect for history… and, of course, my gum.
-Kelly
RIP
Update: Five minutes after the completion of this post, I watched as one of my favorite things smashed to a million pieces. Rest in peace, My Favorite Wine Glass Jr., replacement of My (previously smashed) Favorite Wine Glass Sr. This is why we can't have nice things. I'm distraught. Who's got some gum?