Moving On

My grandfather was an antique dealer, and I grew up going to auctions with him. I loved the rhythmic rise and fall as the auctioneer cried for a higher bid. I loved the colorful patchwork of decades of someone's life splayed out on hay racks and folding tables. I loved the smell of auctions - oftentimes part old lady, part wood shop, part fresh fruit pie from the lunch wagon, and just a hint of mustiness in the mix that clung to your fingers after you thumbed through piles and poked around in boxes.

Grandpa had a knack for knowing what things were - the things that no one else would be able to identify. The auctiongoers around us would pick something up gingerly, examine it, and turn it over in their hands. Often the item would have a hidden spring or recessed hinge that would cause it to dance briefly and unexpectedly, and the holder to jump back in startled surprise, then look around sheepishly to see if anyone had noticed. My grandpa always noticed, and covertly pointed out the incident so we could share in the fun together.  When it was time for the item to be held up in the ring, the auctioneer would stumble along, searching for an explanation, until he finally pulled out one of the standard favorites, like, "You don't find many of these around anymore..." or "I don't know what it is, but it's a good one. Who'll give me ten dollars?" And off he'd go.

After bidding once or twice against a hesitant and curious opponent, my grandpa would invariably win the prize, and be invited to share what it was by the auctioneer. Then, eyes twinkling, he'd bring to life a piece of rustic, primitive American history for the gathered crowd with both his practical demonstration and his earthy, comfortable storytelling. After taking it home and cleaning it up, he'd write out a tag for it in his meticulous handwriting, and it would be sold within a day or two - a piece of someone's past rescued for another generation to treasure. He was a mover of goods in the best of possible ways. I still turn to find him and share a half smile or a quiet chuckle when I see someone puzzling over a mysterious piece of Americana at my local auction house. But, nowadays the joke is always on me since he's been gone for almost ten years. I miss him terribly.

I am thinking of him this evening because, I, too have been given the task of moving goods, and I am at a loss. Just like my grandpa, I know all too well the value and importance and history of the items before me, but I am finding myself unable to preserve the treasure, as he did so well. So, instead, the things I am tasked with moving will be packed into boxes and given away -  no meticulous label, no way to convey what they mean to me.

I did fine with the underwear and socks. The cosmetics didn't even give me pause as I threw away what was used, and donated the rest. The nondescript, long-sleeved shirts and black leggings were easy to fold and lay aside. However, when I got to my mother-in-law's jacket an hour or so ago, I had to stop. As I pulled it from the hanger, I was caught up by the smell of her coat and the sound of her coat and feel of her coat, and could almost imagine that instead of me wrapping my arms around an empty garment, it was her wrapping her arms around me. I wanted to believe that when I opened my eyes I would see her smiling in more than just my memory - wanted to have one more moment with her, even if it was stolen out of those difficult, painful last few months. But, it was not meant to be. The coat hung slack and vacant in my hands, and the smell of her perfume dissipated in my living room and soon disappeared entirely.

To be honest, I was surprised to have had to leave the coat hanging over a chair and take time to cry and remember. This is most likely her last batch of clothing - the last of many, many that I have gone through and moved on since she died in April. It was indescribably difficult to walk away from a consignment store rack filled with her colorful dresses and signature vests this summer, and I thought that by having achieved that task I was done with the grieving, done with the difficulty, done with the memories. I guess I was wrong. I know, now, that I am not my grandfather, and it is not my gift to be a mover of things.

In the letting in and letting go, the moving out and moving on - in this auction called life, where we all, at times, find ourselves bidding on the unknown and praying for a kind storyteller and a merciful auctioneer to come to our aid when we are suddenly lost and bewildered, I think that I am meant to be a mover not of goods, but of memories. It's true - I cannot keep her coat forever, but will always know what it felt like to be hugged by her, to be loved by her. That coat itself could never convey those things to anyone, but perhaps I can. I will trade in meticulous handwritten tags for late-night, hurriedly-typed blog entries, and know that the outcome of the two tasks is ultimately the same - a precious piece of the past, rescued for future generations to treasure.