Old Boats and Things:

The Stuff Memories Are Made Of

by Robin Bonner

Buried Treasure
We decided recently to clean out the junk from under the deck. In reality, we were removing an old rotted woodpile and a bunch of underbrush from an overgrown patch of yard next to the house. The deck is toward the back, behind the woodpile. Once we dug up the composted logs—now barely recognizable—and cleared away some weeds, we noticed that, well, we had never put any wood latticework across the front side of the deck, the side facing the street. We never noticed it because myriad bushes and wildly growing saplings blocked our view. But no longer: Without the woodpile and underbrush, the under-deck area and all of its contents were clearly exposed.

And then we spied the boat.

“Docked” under the deck for the last 15 years or so was our 14-foot Blue Jay. It saw a lot of action in the early days of our marriage, but none for quite some time. I remember being on board the tiny vessel on Lake Nockamixon and Marsh Creek (both PA) when Amie—now 30—was about 4. Gary and 10-year-old Amie sailed their first race with the Nockamixon Sail Club in the Blue Jay, and the boat capsized in heavy winds. Gary said, “I can still see the surprised look on Amie’s face, like she was saying as the boat went over, ‘Hey, the boat isn’t supposed to do this, is it?’” They had to be towed to shore.

So there was the Blue Jay, parked right there under the deck, patiently waiting for our attention once again. We retired the boat when we bought our Lightning, a 19-footer that better accommodated our growing family. Gary was just a kid himself when his parents brought home the Blue Jay. As the youngest child, he had inherited it; consequently, we were always at odds about what to do with it. Every couple of years, I’d say, “Hey, why don’t we get rid of that boat?” because I would envision a hundred uses for the space it occupied. Gary would say, “Yeah, I know, I know; after I sail it just one more time.” It was a “just one more time” that would never come. Now, because of the lack of foliage, the mast could clearly be seen. Lying on its side and resting along the full length of the boat, the mast stuck out beyond the stern and also beyond the edge of the deck, pointing accusingly at us like a petulant child sticking out his tongue: “You’re going to have to do something with me now!”

Hmmm, yes we were, because no sheet of wood latticework was going to get nailed to the deck with that mast sticking out.

Our dilemma immediately brought to mind two truths: (1) One long-neglected project (in this case, getting rid of the old woodpile) somehow always leads to another (cleaning out under the deck). And (2): It’s never easy to part with possessions that evoke strong memories. We are so attached to our things! We’re content to let them sit there and rot when we no longer have a use for them, just so they’re still accessible to us. It’s a comfort to know that we have them if we want them. I never thought about that before. And I can't blame Gary; I'm just as much as fault.

The older we get, though, the more stuff we have, and the more attached we seem to be to all of it: To me, each object brings a happy memory, so I can’t let go. (I can see that this may be how “pack rats” are born.) Further, Gary and I seem to run into this situation more and more since Amie and Sarah have left home and we have more free time to tackle household projects. We finally have time to clean out closets, basement, attic, garage, under the deck, and so on, and we’re finding more and more “treasures” that we can’t part with!

Sigh.

Our Attachment to Things
For the record, we’re not alone. The inability to let go of things is common in humans, to varying degrees. Some people can’t get rid of anything; they are commonly called hoarders or pack rats, and there’s even a reality TV show about them. Others, like us, can and do take out the trash, donate to thrift stores, and otherwise keep our living areas clear of debris, but we have a natural attachment to many possessions—some large, like our boat—even long after they cease to be useful to us. After all, these things still have importance for us, and they sit in the attic or basement (or the yard) because we can’t bear to part with them.

Behind the attic door...

Yesterday, I opened a closet in the kitchen to look for blank recipe cards, and when I pulled out the “junk” basket from the shelf, an avalanche of rubber bands hit the floor. They slid from their precarious perch atop a stack of shiny-covered booklets of varying sizes, strewn precariously every which way in the basket. These were manuals for household electronics that were either long gone or should be because they were replaced years earlier. OK, so I need a better place to keep rubber bands. I have a tendency to just toss things into the basket as I come across them because the basket is nearby, and hidden.

Baskets of junk.

But what to do about it?

The basket would be an easy thing to clean out. But, every time I intend to “clean out” my china closet, filled to the brim with old vases, dishes, and even old religious statues, I eventually give up. Why? Because there are too many things to part with, too many memories, and too many decisions. Was that crystal vase my grandmother’s, or did Gary’s mom pick it up at a flea market? I can’t remember, but now I can see the value of keeping an inventory of important possessions as they come into the house. How else do we know what to keep and what to discard, and what to tell our children to hang onto after we’re gone? Each possession should be catalogued with a short description listing where it came from and when, what’s special about it, and what it cost (or what sentimental value it has for us). Besides, if we had to fill out a form for every possession that came into our lives, there is a very good chance we wouldn’t accumulate as much as we do.

Lost Photo: A Sacrifice to the Attic Gods?
Sometimes the reverse is true: There is something important that belongs to someone else, and we’d just love to get rid of it—but we can’t find it among the myriad possessions that threaten to take over our storage spaces.

Some great old photos are not lost: Mom as a baby, with her parents.

Mom just brought this up again in recent years, and it now seems to come up more and more frequently. Where’s the photo? I don’t know. I don’t recall scanning it, giving it back to her, or doing anything at all with it, actually. Within the last year, in an effort to solve the mystery, I wrote a post-it note to hunt for the photo. Who knows? Maybe I’d be able to find it, the Holy Grail that it has become, and solve the whole problem. One day, I took an hour and looked in all the “usual” places I might put family photos: on our rolltop desk, in folders, and even in my old files from that PhotoShop class, stored away in plastic bins under my desk in my office (and archived in class projects folders on my computer), all to no avail.

If we do have that photo (and there's a good possibility that we don't), I’m convinced that it’s misfiled in a box somewhere in our attic. If that’s the case, I won’t find it until I retire and clean out the attic, going through each box individually. At that time (which may not be within my mother-in-law’s lifetime), we’ll rejoice and scan the photo for everyone. We’ll even give the original to her oldest child, or do whatever she wants done with it. But, that’s the best that can happen, all because we all have too much stuff. (Mom’s been going through her own household storage areas lately, looking for old photos and making copies for everyone—and it’s taken her until she’s 83 to do it. So, I figure I have about 30 years to get to ours.)

So, our attic and its contents, and all our other worldly possessions in closets and cupboards, do weigh heavily upon us.

I Hate Scrapbooks, But…
Okay, I know scrapbooking is all the rage, but neatly organized photos and memorabilia laid out in a lovely scrapbook that sits on the coffee table always seemed to me to be the sign of a family that either is too fanatical or has too much time on its collective hands. Who is sitting around making these works of art? Either perfectly organized stay-at-home moms at afternoon scrapbooking tea parties, or working moms at 3:00 a.m., guilt-ridden that they aren’t doing enough for their families, even though they're working and contributing to the family’s income, managing the house, feeding and clothing everyone, running kids around to sports and lessons, and so on. It’s certainly not the Dads who are creating scrapbooks. (Okay, shoot me if you’re a Dad who creates the family’s scrapbooks, but I’m sure there are statistics somewhere to prove that you are few and far between). In our household, I've never had that kind of time, and so it has never happened. Gary has saved tons of 35-mm slide and digital family photos (somewhere), thank goodness, but, unfortunately, he’s not into scrapbooking, either.

"Scrap book" photo albums.

It seems that people who create scrapbooks and photo albums are onto something. Maybe it’s an empty-nesting thing: I finally have time to think about it. And, maybe I've begun to panic about the potential for our family's memories to be lost. In any event, such receptacles could be a great way to reduce the clutter in my attic. Even more important, they would collect my family’s history by preserving photos and other small souvenirs from years past. The tough thing would be to figure out what year we did what and laying things out chronologically—or not. How about doing a photo album just of that family trip to Disney World? Or, of the camping trip out West the summer of 1998, when we spent two weeks traveling through five states to visit seven national parks?

As an extra step, digitizing family photos would ensure that multiple copies can be made available to future generations. Finally, with the kids out on their own (or, at worst, after retirement), that can happen. Organizing family memories can provide empty nesters with a constructive reason to delve back into their family’s past—it’s an activity that can involve both spouses and evoke memories of the kids when they were young. Reliving happy family memories can never be a bad thing!

Buried Treasure: Reprise
But, what do you do about large objects that evoke happy family memories but, because of their size, need to go? Answer: Find a worthy and happy home for them. Case in point is our Blue Jay. Once we rediscovered the boat under the deck, dragged it out, cleaned it up somewhat, took some photos, and rehashed a dozen or so happy memories, we pulled it back under the deck, unsure what to do next. Our heads said, “Put an ad on Craigslist,” but our hearts said, “Not so fast!” It immediately became the elephant under the deck, so to speak.

Passing of the torch: Gary, Theo, Melissa, and Tristan with the Blue Jay.

Next, Gary put out a “Yahoo Groups” email to the 150 members of the club, inviting anyone who was interested in the Blue Jay to speak up. Within 24 hours, he had four responses, and two more showed up shortly afterward. The emails were from enthusiastic wooden boat owners: “I would be honored to take care of this little boat!” “This is a great boat!” “It is a beautiful boat!” “Really ‘wood’ like to restore her.” Each one swore he’d love our Blue Jay, restore it, and use it. This made our decision a very difficult one, and there seemed to be no good way to choose among them. Two more busy weeks went by as we contemplated this recent development. Gary had hardly expected one response, never mind six, and so quickly! (I almost began to think we should have advertised it on Craigslist for $500, just to see if we could have gotten it.)

Ahhh, space under the deck.

Even with all of our memories associated with this boat, our younger daughter, Sarah, had never sailed on it. We found this out on Mother’s Day, as we were telling her the saga of how we decided to "dispose" of it. She was too young, evidently, and it was probably about the time we contemplated taking her out on the boat that we bought the Lightning. So, there will be one more sail on the Blue Jay after it’s out from under our deck, and one more set of memories to be made.

Finally, that Sunday afternoon, Theo arrived with his girlfriend Melissa and her son, Tristan, to pick up the boat. “Hey Tristan, you ought to learn to sail, so you can impress the girls!” they teased. Tristan was not amused. Melissa and I chatted there on the lawn while Gary and Theo went over the Blue Jay’s specs. Melissa’s dad, a retired carpenter, was looking forward to helping Theo restore the boat as a retirement project. In hindsight, we should have brought out a bottle of champagne, or at least mixed up some margaritas, to celebrate the event—the passing of the torch.

One cherished possession had been parted with amicably! Now we just have to get to the attic. And those closets . . .

Bye, bye Blue Jay!