For as long as I can remember, I have been interested in the history of the things that are part of my life. The history was often recited to me when I was very young, and having received the information, I never thought to question it again. For instance, there are four caned chairs that have been in my grandmother's house, garage, my dad's house, workshop, my first apartment, and are now part of the furniture my husband and I treasure. These chairs were hand made, and my grandmother, dad and I have all, at one point, undertaken to restore the caned seats. This is a tedious and back-breaking job, so the last time they needed attention, I actually paid somebody else to do it. They are beautiful pieces, and what I knew, what I had been told, was that my grandfather had made them in the early days of his marriage to my grandmother. I was sure that was true, and have repeated the story many times to family and friends. But a couple of years ago, when my dad was 90, he informed me that those chairs had actually been made by someone in Bakersfield or Wasco, by someone who was not related to any of us. This person was a relative, or friend, of a man who was dating my grandmother in the 1930's and 40's.
I was confused by this new information, and began to question the history of many of the things that I have treasured over the years. Did the beautiful pewter teapot really come from England? Was it really given to my great grandmother as a wedding present? Did the slight melting of part of the pattern come from being set up against the stove pipe as I had been told? Or was my Dad's memory becoming a bit unreliable. Or was my memory at fault?
The implications of this revelation seemed pretty far-reaching to me. Could I trust anything I had been told? Was my family history something that changed and flowed depending on what made the story more worthy, more credible, more important? Did the stories serve to make the family "treasures" more valued or acceptable?
There isn't anyone to ask about these things now. I am the one who carries the stories, cares for the various pieces of flotsam and jetsam that have accrued over the years to this one and that one. But it is true that I value all of it, worthy or unworthy, storied or unstoried. These are the "familiars" that kept generations company through births, sickness, weddings, funerals. They have given silently and patiently and I do believe they have, by just being there, absorbed so much living that they represent the truest and best, the storied and unstoried, the damaged, the restored, the used and abused, that make up all the "pieces" of generations of daily life.
I value these things, no matter what their "real" history, or their actual worth, just because they represent a connection backwards and forwards, to family. And family is all the meaning there is, really, whether there be blood ties, legal ties, or just an agreement that we belong together.
