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Once upon a time, in a galaxy far away, I spent my days raising children, working a fulltime nine-to-five, managing forty acres of land, keeping up with friends, serving on the Board of Directors of my synagogue, writing a novel at 5:00 in the morning, and generally juggling all the pieces of an extremely full life. Oh yes, and there was a husband too of course. Those were happy years, full years, busy years, and challenging years. During that time our family had limited income and I found myself constantly engaged in creative financing to make ends meet. I came up with many schemes and strategies (all perfectly legal – I have never robbed a bank) both great and small.
One Christmas during those lean years, when we had little money to spare for gifts, I had one of my proudest moments as a low-income mom. I bought two sets of large, brightly-colored, cardboard, brick-patterned building blocks (“brick blocks”) and had them shipped. They arrived in flat boxes, unassembled. On Christmas Eve, there was almost nothing under the tree when we put the children to bed. Then Ron and I, with the help of two intrepid friends (who had come to the Ranch for the holiday) stayed up late into the night assembling the blocks and individually wrapping them in newspaper. When the children woke up on Christmas morning, the space underneath the tree overflowed with wrapped blocks. Magic. The children went wild with glee tearing off the newspaper. The cat wore himself out chasing the wrappings all over the living room. The adults drank coffee and laughed and laughed. Then came Dad’s best pancakes for breakfast, followed by construction of brick block forts, walls, thrones, bridges, vehicles, rocket ships, castles, and fantastical realms. Our entertainment with them was limited only by our imagination.
Those blocks were perhaps the best plaything I ever gave my children. We used them for everything; in a million different games we played and structures we constructed. We laid them out in a trail around the house and steppy-stoned our way around without touching the floor for a minute (hot lava beneath, don’t step foot in it or you die). We used them to prop things up and hold things down and connect one thing to another and everything in between. We invented worlds around them.
These days, I feel as though my children have been grown for a long time, but relatively speaking that’s not true. The youngest left home only a decade ago. Even so, I certainly have no use for these battered, chewed, faded, peeling, squashed, dented brick blocks that I have clung to for that decade. Every once in a while I have had children in the house who played with them. But I can’t remember the last time we took them out. They are in no condition to be of any use for anything, battered as they are. Still, I have not been able to bring myself to part with them. Am I a hoarder? Perhaps a hoarder of memories. What is it about beloved objects that makes it so hard to let them go? They are not people or places or living creatures. The blocks are not a repository for my memories. I hold my memories in my head and in my heart. So why does it feel as though the very energy of good times has crept into these objects? We humans so easily imbue objects with the essence of the experiences associated with them. This week, I finally tipped the brick blocks into the recycling bin (after all, they are pure cardboard). They have outworn any earthly use and yet, I have such difficulty saying goodbye to these old friends. I think back to that Christmas Eve night when we stayed up late folding them into shape. One of the friends who helped that night has since passed away. The blocks survived her by many years.
Oh how I have loved this life, these people, our connections and times together, even down to the smallest detail, even down to a dog-eared chunk of cardboard. In the midst of the horrors and catastrophes befalling us in this anguished moment in history, the burning inferno of the Western fires bringing climate chaos to our doorstep and destroying our beloved forests and glorious wild lands, the centuries-old systemic racism and oppression of those who think they are better than others exploding in the cities, a deadly plague bringing heartbreak, the absence of leadership at the national level, the terrifying financial collapse of individuals, families, and communities bringing with it hunger and homelessness; even in the midst of all this grief and loss and anxiety, I think of how much I love this life. I feel grateful that I am one of the fortunate ones. I have been blessed with times like waking up on Christmas morning with three spectacular young children, my husband, dear friends, and a rambunctious cat romping around in the house, filled with joy, adventure, delight, hilarity, creativity, and pancakes.
The time has come for me to part with the brick blocks. I will never part with the stories of them or the memories of good times they represent. Life has treated me well. Thank you and more please.
