Family Crap Heirlooms

You can pick your friends, you can pick your nose, but you can't pick your family.

I don't know why I thought of that. It is not like I am thirteen again.

I have been looking at old photos lately, oh, and this is not a photo of my family. Yeah, there is Leesa, third on the left, second row, with the three kids at her feet. Am I the only one that sees children at the feet of someone and thinks of the family dog? Yeah, dogs and kids, at the feet, eating table scraps. Sorry.

I have a lot of old photos of people I have never met – people who have died 60 or more years ago. I say that I "love" these photos, but you know, if they get lost in a fire, how heart-broken will I be? I carry around the photos because I was given them to safeguard. Almost anyone who would have known these people are dead, and the living ones are not very lucid anyway. "Hey, grandpa, go easy on the Wild Turkey." And I always think to myself, "what the hell, he is 90-some-odd years old, what harm can it do?"

Then I look at other things that I cart around or keep in storage. Some of the items are great-grandparents-old-this-or-that. It had sentimental meaning for my great-grandparents or grandparents, but I never used the item. I would have been more sentimental over an old Donny and Marie Record Player. That reminds me of when I was a girl – not some old hair brush.

Of course, then my Catholic genes kick in and I start to feel guilty. "Sorry, Great Grandma Ida, I know you must have counted brush strokes – ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred – and it was especially meaningful for you to pass onto your children. But sooner or later it becomes stuff in a box, taken out ever other decade. Eventually someone will inherit it, and it might find its way to Ebay. Maybe.

Of course, I could buy an old Donny and Marie Record Player on Ebay if I act fast.