Growing up, my parents had a big cedar trunk at the foot of their bed. It was originally my mom’s hope chest. It was always at the foot of the bed, no matter where we lived. It was not opened often, normally in the early fall when my mother brought out our winter clothes, mostly sweaters and wool or flannel shirts, heavy winter scarves, and cloth gloves. These would all go back in the trunk the following spring. The chest was made of cedar which kept the moths at bay.

When she got the little key from a jewelry box on her dresser, we knew she was going to open it and my sisters and I gathered around. We would help her scoot it away from the end of her bed, so the lid had room to fold back. She’d turn the key in the lock, push it in, and lift. The warm, sweet smell of cedar filled our lungs as we leaned in to catch the scent. It was not a Wyoming smell. It was the smell of her upbringing in Washington State, of old trees, and rain on the edge of the ocean.  In the trunk were all our heavy winter clothes. Underneath them were clothes from my parents’ past, my father’s navy uniform, plaid wool jackets from my mother’s teen years.

A tray extended from the curved trunk lid and in it were the most interesting things, things which gave us hints of our parent’s past. There were two wooden dolls which my uncle brought from Japan. They each had a head and body only and looked like tiny bowling pins. In a pile were buttons from my father’s dress uniform, a WWII medal, and a cigar end clipper. There were two cigarette holders, meant for fancy occasions, each was gold with a small button on the side to flip open the top to the cigarettes laid in rows inside. They were in silk bags with string loops to cinch them shut. When we had the chance, we’d pop open the lighter on top of the holder and grind the little wheel to make sparks. After a few years the flint wore down and we no longer made sparks. We lost interest in it.

The best treasure was a sand dollar wrapped in cellophane. Placed in a compartment of it own, the fragile shell was the symbol of our mother’s youth. About the size of an orange slice, the shell was pure white. A series of holes in the top were the shape of a five petalled flower. The reverse had a hole in the center. Bits of sand were inside, could be heard rolling around inside it. As long as we could remember, our mother complained about the Wyoming weather, comparing it disfavorably to that of western Washington. (Oddly, after we moved to Oregon when I was 17, she spent the rest of her years missing the dry warm weather of the prairie.) This was the symbol of that other place, a thin fragile shell unlike anything we found in the harsh winds of the prairie. We were allowed to cradle it in our hands carefully. She didn’t want it broken.

I am reminded of this as we’ve been packing. We have our memories for our children to sort through, though they are not in a trunk at the foot of the bed. That trunk went to one of my sisters when my mother passed. Our memories of our lives for our children to ponder have been passed on more actively. We lived in the area where Lydia was raised. We made the same treks up the gorge to see her family. Our history was a long running story passed on across picnic tables and cold beer (later), potato salad and jars of peaches. It was a continuation, narration, and documentation all in one. We didn’t have a trunk of memories. Rather, the family history was lined along our shelves in pictures and little ceramic (and sometimes macaroni) icons of events. Some shelves held layers of annual school pictures and sports teams.

We visit those events and occasions as we pack. The bits and pieces will go to our children and theirs, to find new places on shelves, or a home in a new trunk, for future grandkids to ask parents about. This seems to be the way family sagas grow and develop, caches of little stuff that recall to mind Grandmas’ smiles and sleepovers and how grandpa smelled like the outdoors. Shared memories shared again.

Blessings

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