Can we talk?

Leaving something behind

  When we ponder our own mortality, occasionally we think about what we leave behind. Do I have the garage cleaned out? How about the sheds and the attic? Did I take those old clothes to Goodwill? Will the ones concerned find my instructions, if any, or the insurance papers, or all the bank accounts, etc? And if there's a current health concern, or we're up in years, then it may seem even more pressing to be sure the house is clean, the bills paid, the dirty little secrets tossed out, or the computer cleaned up. It just depends on our personalities and how we want to be remembered, or forgotten.

    If we actually have someone to inherit our things, then we might want to decide who gets the nice jewelry or which pearls, who gets the rare coin collection, or our handmade crafts, or fishing gear. If there's a sense of family legacy, we might want to list the hand-me-downs and who owned them, like Great Grandma's silverware, or Aunt Jenny's tatted tablecloth from the early 1900's, or Great Great Uncle Joe's seed planter. The kids won't know what those things are or that they have sentimental value if we don't write it down (they won't remember if you tell them). Or photos and snapshots may have to be labeled.

    Which brings me to my current pondering: I'm trying to label every photo I find in this house. I don't know them all, so I'm hounding my elderly father, my uncles, and even distant cousins. When I get a positive ID, I write on the back of the picture. The really good shots, or the really old ones, I'm putting in my Windows photo gallery to preserve them for future use. Provided there's someone who knows they're on my hard drive, someone will have them when I'm gone, no fading paper or yellowing film.

    Now here's the thing. Will anyone but me care? As an adult, I had a relationship with three of my four grandparents (one died when I was 13). My brothers and probably half my cousins built a relationship with them as adults. So we have this sense of continuity, of heritage. The next generation doesn't care. In my family, there just weren't enough kids. I didn't have children, therefore, no grandchildren. Two of my brothers didn't have kids. One was married for ten years before he had kids. But his kids don't care about history. They only knew their grandparents in their childhood. They do not pursue activities with their remaining grandparents now that they are grown. They don't know old stories or care.

    With my cousins, they just don't get together as a whole family. Their mothers are all gone, so they've dispersed. They have some minor interest in family history, but their kids do not.So I don't really have anyone to whom I can pass on my memories, my stories, my collectibles, or photographs, or genealogy. I have to care for those things just for my own enjoyment.

    I don't want to leave any messes, or confusion, or hardship. I'm not afraid to die. I know I'll go someplace better. I dread the pain or the misery that may precede death. With enough of that, I may welcome death. I'm not entirely reconciled with the idea that I will be forgotten so soon. Like many people, I suppose that when the summary of my life is reviewed, I will be found wanting, that my years on earth may not have counted for much. We don't have angels named Clarence to show us that "It's a Wonderful Life", and we aren't all as good as George Bailey. Will I hear a heavenly voice say, "Well done!", ot will I hear, "Tch, tch. You could have done so much better." It just doesn't seem like one of those "oh well" moments in life that you can shrug off and pretend it doesn't matter.