Like Santa Claus, my mom never shows up empty-handed. When she visits, the kids gather at the door, waiting to see how lucky they'll be this time. Will it be the new Lemony Snicket book? That turtleneck Abby had circled -- hint, hint -- in the Land's End catalog a few months ago? A pair of earrings for Phoebe's recently pierced ears? If a grandmother's job is to shower love and affection (and presents), my mom is in the running for Awesomest Grandmother of All Time. She also brings things for me, however. Not presents, exactly. Things she has saved. Things that have lived in the boxes that sit in her compulsively incredibly well-curated basement for thirty years -- her version of what Jenny and I call "the treasure chest," the stuff from your life that you can't bear to picture in a landfill somewhere -- which she is now parceling out, bit by bit. Little dolls from her childhood, my old soccer jacket with all the patches sewn on the back, the mimeographed newspaper from my elementary school containing a story I wrote, in second grade, about Arbor Day, the light blue cable-knit outfit I wore on my first birthday, photos of my eighth grade dinner dance (I wore my dad's tie and WHITE PLEATED PANTS), my old Looney Tunes T-shirt with Tweety Bird on the back and "Rent-a-Kid-Cheap" on the front, an old Wilson A2000 baseball mitt, my freshman course guide and assorted college detritus, and once, I crap you not, an Easter bonnet I made in pre-school out of a paper plate, some plastic flowers, and a light blue ribbon. (Me: "Mom, come on, what am I going to
Pass it On
Pass it On
Pass it On
Like Santa Claus, my mom never shows up empty-handed. When she visits, the kids gather at the door, waiting to see how lucky they'll be this time. Will it be the new Lemony Snicket book? That turtleneck Abby had circled -- hint, hint -- in the Land's End catalog a few months ago? A pair of earrings for Phoebe's recently pierced ears? If a grandmother's job is to shower love and affection (and presents), my mom is in the running for Awesomest Grandmother of All Time. She also brings things for me, however. Not presents, exactly. Things she has saved. Things that have lived in the boxes that sit in her compulsively incredibly well-curated basement for thirty years -- her version of what Jenny and I call "the treasure chest," the stuff from your life that you can't bear to picture in a landfill somewhere -- which she is now parceling out, bit by bit. Little dolls from her childhood, my old soccer jacket with all the patches sewn on the back, the mimeographed newspaper from my elementary school containing a story I wrote, in second grade, about Arbor Day, the light blue cable-knit outfit I wore on my first birthday, photos of my eighth grade dinner dance (I wore my dad's tie and WHITE PLEATED PANTS), my old Looney Tunes T-shirt with Tweety Bird on the back and "Rent-a-Kid-Cheap" on the front, an old Wilson A2000 baseball mitt, my freshman course guide and assorted college detritus, and once, I crap you not, an Easter bonnet I made in pre-school out of a paper plate, some plastic flowers, and a light blue ribbon. (Me: "Mom, come on, what am I going to