For the past two days, I have spent the majority of my time moving, dusting, cleaning, and moving again furniture and boxes from my great-grandmother’s house.
My great-grandmother died about four years ago at the age of 94. She was, among other things, something of a pack rat. (I guess that’s where I got it from.) Consequently, among our finds so far have been drawings from the 1930’s, sewing instructions from the 1920’s, and letters from the 1890’s. There’s an old AM radio from the 1940’s or so (which I’ve already asked to have when I get my own place). There are many pieces of furniture that are still in amazing condition for their age.
As I write this, I’m looking at her old Singer sewing machine (from back when the machine was itself a piece of furniture). My hands still smell of old wood and dust and history.
In our living room sits a table and chairs that my great-great-grandparents used. They’re relatively simple pieces of furniture, but their life is in their history. In my bedroom is my great-grandmother’s rocking chair: the one that she held my mother in, and my sister and I in as well.
My mother and I had a talk about how memories are kept alive in the things that are in the house, like the table and the sewing machine and so on. I tend to keep memories more from situations than things, myself. But in the case of that rocking chair, seeing it in my room and knowing where it’s been is incredible. And I can remember my Maw-Maw Louise, matriarch of one side of my family.
Tonight, before I go to bed, I’m going to sit in that chair. And I’m going to rock for a little bit, surrounded by history.