Decades ago, my parents sold my childhood home in New Jersey. Between contract and closing, they held a garage sale to shed their burden of packing their history, and mine. There were many things on the front lawn I wanted to keep, but Dr. SJ and I were just starting out in our lives as grown-ups, and had no place to put them. She was adamant that I had to let it go.
I’ve had regrets. I regretted not taking my father’s World War II uniforms, for example. HIs field jacket. His Eisenhower jacket. His boots and caps. And then there were the fish plates. My great grandmother, Grandma Oliner, left them to my mother, a complete set of antique fish plates. Each plate bore the painted image of a different fish. It’s not that I cared or knew much about fish. I was not a big fish guy, whether to catch them or eat them. But the plates were magnificent.
Yet, Dr. SJ insisted that we leave them behind, to be bought by any random person with loose change in their pocket. After all, where we would put them? What would we do with them? Continue reading
