It's been a mellow exercise, this business of sifting through the lives of our parents, both of whom are denizens of paradise at the moment. The boxes and scrapbooks may be dusty on the outside, but inside there is gold. So many black-and-white photos have seemingly appeared out of thin air...since none of us has ever seen them before. So many of them show a terribly young couple, he - sharp and spiffy in his military uniform, the one that had the belt around the middle of the coat...she - tall, statuesque, proper...both smiling like there's no tomorrow; and for all they knew, what with a war going on, there might not be...What to throw away, what to keep. Will there be a great-great-grandchild who digs history and draws family trees in quiet moments? Someone who would savor these pictures and other things, the letters we've found, the cards to each other, the tangible evidences of commitment in an age when that was the norm, not that love-it-and-leave-it mentality which pervades our society. Is the attic really a suitable place for a scrapbook with pictures of their early parenthood, beaming ear-to-ear while holding their firstborn, or do you make sure that every great-grandchild gets to memorize each page, each circumstance? Do you dishonor in them in any way by putting a small portion of their memories in the trash? Or do you realize that this world is...not...our...home and know that if they could render advice on this matter, they'd say chunk it, chunk all of it! That's not what matters!
Ah, decisions, decisions.
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