Home is Where the Memories Live

It has yet been another solid week of opening of boxes daily…putting things away, throwing things away, giving things away…and all the while realizing that our possessions possess us. Thirty-one years of living in France in one place will do that to you—collecting things for a reason at the moment, then discovering you can live without most of it…quite happily.

One morning, Diane, my assistant, asked, “Do you realize we opened and installed 50 boxes of things?” And that was just that one morning! She was hell bent on getting the bookshelves filled, arranged in a reasonable and pretty order, before doing much of anything else, because of the sheer pleasure of the accomplishment. And when it was all done, we were very pleased with ourselves to say the least.

The travel section was massive, but we tossed out almost every guide book that had previously been on the shelf—for destinations around the world—while hearing my daughter’s little voice in my head saying, “Mom, when are you ever going to use any of these again? You know you do all of your research online now! And the maps! They have to go!” And they did, along with the dozens of maps of all corners of the globe. Pretty picture books stayed, as did the little notebooks kept during those travels chronicling various facets and memories from the excursions. How can you toss them? You can’t.

The sections of signed author copies of books, mostly about France, took over more territory than even the art books and the cookbooks combined. They went into double digits…meaning two rows, and overflowing. This is when I realized how many authors I know, most all of which are American living in France. Cara Black’s took up one whole shelf by themselves, as I have every one! (BTW, Cara will be speaking at Après-Midi next April, so don’t miss it!) Not a one signed book got tossed out…of course…and they are among my most treasured possessions.

The art books stood taller than most. Many had to go at the very top where they could realize their own importance. The art books aren’t just books with pretty pictures…many catalogue the photos that hang on the walls that I collected over the years, and the relationships I’ve had with the dealers and the artists themselves. Diane was determined to position the most consulted up front and center for easy reach.

Some of my favorite cookbooks were stained and tattered, showing off the years when they actually got used—when I was cooking more than dining out and loved to show off my culinary talents—particularly Italian cooking by chef Marcella Hazan. She was my idol. (Those were the days, my friend. And the big pots, skillets, poachers and steamers are now on the shelves above the kitchen cabinets, because they won’t fit inside them…but they almost never get used.)

Amid the books were diaries and journals, written by me, my daughter and even my mother. I found one from high school. You don’t give those up. And believe it or not, I have every paper agenda book for the last 40 years. My entire life in detail, hour by hour, is in those “Day-Timers” and “Quo Vadis” (I refuse to go electronic). When I finally go to write my memoir, it’s all there…every moment of existence. No, you don’t give those up.

A large section was devoted to spiritual material, educational and self-help books. Eckhart Tolle’s The Power of Now took center stage, since it changed my life more than any other. There are lots devoted to past lives such as “Many Lives, Many Masters” by Brian Weiss https://www.brianweiss.com/about-the-books/many-lives-many-masters/ that will turn you into a believer, regardless of how skeptical you might be.

There were boxes of classic books that are impossible to say so-long to, some in French, and kids books to be saved for my grandson. Again, the kind that should be on every kid’s shelf. But I did say so-long to the stack of Agatha Christies, James Lee Burkes and Roald Dahls because at some point I had to be reasonable. We found two boxes of every issue of International Living since 2002 and as much as I hated tossing them, it was an act of survival from keepsake overload.

It was cathartic to have opened boxes of things that had been buried inside the cabinets or on the shelves for as many as 30 years, and relive special moments. There were more boxes than we could count of old letters and greeting cards. One plastic bag was filled with letters I had written to my mother when I was living on a kibbutz in Israel from 1972 to 1973 on special Aerogram paper. She had saved all of them and I found them when she passed away 10 years ago. Talk about bringing back memories! No, they didn’t get tossed, but placed high up in the closets arranged as space-saving as possible. I thought again of my daughter and what she’ll go through when I pass away and she uncovers all this stuff. She’ll be cursing me, most likely!

The ancient photo albums went on shelves in my daughter’s room—again, these are not things you toss. Do you remember when we actually had our film printed, then selected the best photos and put them in albums to look at again and again down the road? We have dozens of them, not to mention boxes and boxes of old family photos I inherited from my mother. Do we look at them? Almost never. Can I toss them? No. Never.

In turn, however, we uncovered boxes and boxes of Erica’s things. She’s the queen of essential oils and natural skin products. There’s a huge drawer of these bottles awaiting her return to Paris. And stacks of boxes of beads from her days of making jewelry. I found Louis, too. Louis was her stuffed animal dog that had the sweetest face in the world. Louis had been mended and re-mended and clearly had lived as many lives as Brian Weiss’ clients. He went into a drawer to surprise her next time she’s home.

There is still lots to do—I gave Martine a “punch list” of about 40 items—things to finish and things to change and things to consider that we hadn’t thought about before. But by Saturday, the apartment was 95% in place. Both beds were made and every inch had been cleaned. Almost everything was in a closet, cabinet or drawer, except for a stack of file boxes—the kind we don’t create anymore that will go down to the cellar—and the art was stacked in a corner to be curated and hung when ready.

Friends came over to see the apartment and go out for dinner Saturday night. It was a welcome treat, since for the last two weeks I had been ordering in, eating dinner in bed on a lap tray with make-shift utensils, while watching old movies on my laptop computer, caught up in a spaghetti of cords and fearful of spilling it all in the bed. They came in with a huge bouquet of flowers, providing an opportunity to dig out my favorite vase from its hiding place. (It’s so special, and has such a history, that no one will touch it, for fear of breaking it.)

The beautiful bouquet topped off the two weeks of work to get everything in place. But when the art will be on the walls is when I’ll really feel “at home.”

A la prochaine…