Some of my friends have the nurturing gene and are wonderful at taking care of their children and/or their fellow man. Others have the sewing gene and make beautiful clothing. I envy people who have the artistic gene and can paint beautiful portraits, landscapes, and everything in between, while even my stick figures are cringe-worthy.
I was probably off running in circles on a cloud when genes were passed out, because I missed out on most of them – especially the sentimental gene. I am not a sentimental person.
The weekly writing challenge at The Daily Post at WordPress is: “Tell us about your most meaningful possession.”
I don’t have one. Writing exercise over. I don’t win.
Many years ago, my husband endured several back injuries at work. We sold our wedding rings to make ends meet until worker’s compensation kicked in. I never batted an eye. My wedding ring was gone, and I didn’t feel anything about it other than I was glad we could pay the bills.
My father died in his early fifties. My mother gave his pocket watch to me. I felt nothing when I looked at the watch. I knew my dad didn’t want to wear a wristwatch, and that’s the only reason he carried the pocket watch. I sold it at a garage sale.
In my twenties, I opened a box from storage. It held books from my teen years – Nancy Drew, Dana Girls, Trixie Belden, Donna Parker, and many more. Looking at them made me feel warm and fuzzy inside – for a couple of minutes. I promptly resealed the box and gave it to a woman I worked with, so her daughter could read them. I remember the woman being flabbergasted that I would give away something precious from my childhood. She said I would regret it. I didn’t.
It boils down to “things” and “possessions.” I don’t care about either. Our house could burn down tomorrow, and I would only hope the dog got out, and that I had already checked the lottery ticket in my desk.
What I do care about are memories. We’ve had our ups and downs financially over the years, but we rarely spend much money on anniversary, birthday, or holiday gifts. Instead, we make memories.
A family outing to dinner and then to the local theater to see A Christmas Carol makes a wonderful memory.
Hauling your ten-year-old kid along on tons of old-folks bus tours, so that your lonely mother is entertained, makes for fabulous, and sometimes fabulously funny, memories.
The memory lane is a long one. I have four siblings, and we grew up in a simpler time where we spent entire summer afternoons forty-feet high in the air as we dangled from trees. My older brother fell out once and lived to tell about it. We made our own haunted house in the basement and charged the neighbor kids a dime to come through. We later spent Monday nights on the living room floor with cousins and friends as we watched Laugh-In, while Dad sat in his recliner unable to control his Muttley laugh.
There are many more memories, but they are mine and would likely bore you. So, my answer to the writing challenge this week isn’t exactly what they were asking for, but my memories are my most meaningful possession.