How easy it is to pinpoint life`s fabulous ”firsts”-first kiss, first love, first baby.
Photo albums are replete with black-and-white reminders of prom picnics, our then-young mothers and curly-haired babies triumphantly holding up a single finger at a first birthday party.
Ah, but what of life`s ”lasts”-those final chapters that steal upon us unbidden, unnoticed and fade unceremoniously without our being aware some segment of our life has quietly passed away?
Baby books are filled with landmarks: first step, first tooth, first school day. But where is it written the last time we tied our child`s shoe?
Surely, there was a last time.
At what exact moment in our life did the music come up dramatically in the background as we bent a weary parental back to pick up, for the very last time, a toy belonging to our youngest child?
In some instances the hallmarks of ”last times” are inescapable. Particularly when we join the millions of Americans who move across country Four years ago when my husband and I prepared to do just that, it was a bit like being flayed alive.
The layers of security imparted by knowing exactly where my childhood doll bunk beds were had to be examined in the harsh light of moving costs and lack of storage space in the new house. At such times life becomes a marathon of successive conclusions and exclusions as the flotsam never destined for the moving van is stripped away.
As I prepared to move from my nearly lifelong home in the Chicago area where our sons had been raised, to Orange, Calif., I was anything but thrilled. I was too conscious of the music swelling in the background of my imagined movie-life as I went about the teeth-clenching ordeal of saying ciao to an ”Aida”-size cast of family and friends.
In addition, I had to cope with the conundrum of how to accommodate several lifetimes of Midwestern memorabilia such as balloon-tire Schwinn bikes, sleds and ice skates in a basementless California home.
When we were preparing to move, California real estate agents advised us that memories, like houses, carried a high price tag. ”Pitch it or store it,” they said.
Because I am too frugal to rent storage for my keepsakes and too sentimental to abandon them I went through the agony of indecision. For six months prior to making the move I lived in a dither over the necessity of bringing down the curtain on entire acts of my little life-drama as I sorted through endless artifacts.
I spent my days allocating winter coats to Goodwill, plants to friends, old board games to children`s hospital wards and evenings having ”last time” dinners with friends.
Perhaps because I was so aware of the rending, I`ve kept closer to those left behind, probably more so than most. However, the overflow of old doll bunk beds, ice skates, sleds and enormous bikes and tons of musty books is a problem. Not wishing to relinquish my memories , I paid a carpenter to build an attic. Let`s hope it`s the last time I ever do that.
