Sometimes I head to the storage shed on our property and reorganize my treasures. That’s what I did two Sundays ago and I came across things I knew were stored there but I had not seen in quite a while.
One of those long-lost treasures was Annabelle, my childhood troll doll.
Annabelle. Her hair is nearly gone and is fragile to the touch
So happy was I to see her again that I promised never to relegate her to a box in a shed. She now sits on my night stand where I can acknowledge her and wish her a good night and good day.
Annabelle (I have no idea how I came to give her that name) is a piece of my history that evokes keen memories of me as a little girl. In the third grade I took her to school with me every day. In my desk, one of those desks that had the lift-up top, I had a whole house set-up for her; there she would wait until the school day ended and we could go home together. She was my constant companion, keeping the lonely little girl I was occupied in a place of imagination. I told Annabelle secrets no one else would hear.
Many times over the years I would find her in one of my boxes. Each and every reconnect with her would prompt a recall of memory that involved the two of us. With so many years between that little girl and the middle-aged woman I am now, many memories are lost to time passing. But having this tangible piece of childhood to remind me keeps certain precious memories within reach.
I have many such containers that hold these treasures. Some are scrapbooks, photo albums, old trunks, and boxes of every size, shape, and material.
Just a couple of the boxes I have holding treasures
And another storage place, filled to the brim
The house I live in is so small that it is necessary to house these items in the shed, but I find I have to “visit” them on a fairly regular basis. I get such joy in touching things from my past: the ballerina doll my grandmother gave me on my 10th birthday; the childish drawings I made, my children made; the love letters between me and my husband; the fur clippings of animals I have loved and lost; the cats-eye glasses that were my first pair. Perhaps these things would be trash-worthy to some; for sure when I have passed on they will be meaningless to anyone else, but to me they are as priceless as items in the Smithsonian.
At fifty-three years of age I know that my collecting days are not over, yet I find I save less that pertains to me and more on what will be important to my children and grandchildren. I am the Keeper of Things and take my job very seriously. Just hearing eight-year-old grandson Aiden’s joy when I presented him with the scrapbook of his young life to date is all the encouragement I need.
What childhood treasures have you kept? What feelings and emotions to you experience when you come across them?