I thought I was managing pretty well clearing my mother’s house for sale now she has moved into a care home – no tears, no sentimental attachments to ‘stuff’. But when I emptied the Desk, repository of millions of memories, and realised I had no room for it in my home, although my mother wanted me to have it, that felt rather different. It’s a massive old roll top job. I loved the vibration rattle the lid made opening & closing – it never failed in the 60 odd years we used it. There was a secret drawer, although we often forgot how to open it. Cries of delight greeted each time we remembered, even though there was rarely anything in it once opened.
Golf trophies; dominoes, solitaire, lexicon, snakes & ladders, chess board & pieces; old school reports with phrases like “must try harder”, “tennis could be county standard if her footwork improves”, “he is doing his best and must keep up his effort in all subjects”, “mysterious bits of paper with equally mysterious writing; love letters from my father to my mother during WW2; ancient chocolate bars; ten pairs of sunglasses; knitting needles; family photographs dating back to the 19th century. A treasure trove.
Well, it’s going to auction but I’m saving the photograph I took -odd to think we will no longer be saying, on mislaying things, “Have you looked in the Desk?”