First, a couple of updates:
The three Little Green Globs of Joy have spun into a trio of gorgeous jade chrysalises, and now we wait for the emergence of the monarchs in the next week or so.
The Hairless Kitten (the Tiny Grand Girl) has caused multiple adults to lose their minds over The Great Baby Pea Shortage of Fayette County. Never fear, though; peas have been procured. Beans, bananas, and butternut squash line the pantry shelves, patiently waiting to delight the toothless one. Stella Marie remains aghast (outraged, even) over the humans’ you’re-STILL-getting-it-all-wrong style of caretaking the poor Hairless Kitten.
Second, this is one of those placeholder blogs. Sometimes, I get the urge to shut down the blog, but, quite frankly, it’s the only thing keeping me writing.
Of late and ongoing, there are survival days, grief days, and lots of looking back. Examining the whys and what-nexts.
Among them the “Why’d I start the blog to begin with and do I want to keep it?” Thinking about the answer to this leads to other thinking. Heaven help me with all the thinking…
But the Beth of July 2018, when “The Power of Objects” was written, is certainly not the same Beth of July 2026, nearly eight years later, trying to keep three cats, three cichlids, and three monarch caterpillars tuna’d, flake’d, and milkweed’d. 2026 Beth is a BiBi to a Tiny Grand Girl, involved in community theater (this alone would’ve stroked out 2018 Beth), and nearing perimenopause.
And yet. That writing thing? It’s gripped and clawed its way to the surface through it all. I don’t think I chose it. I think it evolved in my DNA from way before I could properly hold a too-dull #2 pencil.
So even on blog placeholder weeks, like during The Great Baby Pea Shortage of Fayette County and during The Episode Where Everyone Lost Their Minds and Beth Can’t Even, writing serves as a lifeline.
So I sit shaking my head as I read these old blogs. So much is… different from what 2018 Beth knew she knew then.
2026 Beth knows only one thing: Amid all the stuff, writing is the only constant.
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Blog #3 The Power of an Object, July 9, 2018
Stuff. We all have it. Stuff we don’t need. Stuff we don’t want. Stuff we can’t live without. Stuff to put stuff in…
In the last few years, we’ve cleaned out three estates of family members who have passed or needed to downsize.
And oh, my, the stuff.
After each clean-out, I went home exhausted and started tossing and donating my stuff. Thinking, if I die or become otherwise incapacitated, I surely don’t want my kids to deal with it.
Then it begins:
Except that ugly yellow turtle cookie jar that was my grandfather’s because it reminds me of his stories of hunting for snapping turtles along muddy riverbanks and I can still “see” where it lived in my grandparents’ house.
Speaking of them, my grandmother found flower-shaped quartz rocks from Lake Pleasant in Arizona decades ago, so don’t touch those. Or any aunt- or grandmother-made quilt. Ever. Never ever touch the quilts.
Speaking of aunts, leave those two hardback copies of Where’s Waldo alone. I say I’m keeping them because they’re tall enough to support a broken shelf on my bookcase, but really, it’s Waldo, and my aunt gave them to me.
And speaking of gifts, my husband gave me a dog for my birthday ten years ago. Leave his red collar hanging on my rearview mirror, please. May the pup rest in peace.
Speaking of death, my pink marble egg that fits so nicely in the palm of my hand and is so cool and heavy, and my dad gave it to me one Easter—may he rest in peace. It was the same Easter that the sparrow flew into the house and our Boston Terriers went berserk and oh, the chaos...
And speaking of feathered things, leave my birds alone. The vintage tropical bird figurines that I really did buy at a yard sale to flip on eBay, but they ended up with their own special shelf in my sunroom. And the seller was an eccentric old woman who’d collected tropical bird figurines her entire life and insisted on giving me a tour of her sunroom where hundreds of birds covered the walls and tables…
And as I toss and donate, I remember things that I don’t have any longer. The corsages from prom, my wedding bouquet, and a unicorn autograph book —all destroyed in a basement flood.
And speaking of unicorns, my entire unicorn collection that I sold at a garage sale when I was getting married and it was time to grow up and save space for apartment life. Hundreds of unicorn figurines amassed over my childhood. Each one magical to me at one time or another.
You get the picture. We assign memories to objects. The items aren’t needed and wouldn’t mean diddly squat to anyone else, but they give us comfort.
Some objects mark victories or terrible heartache. Think of the relics stored in museums behind glass cases, under lock and key. Permanent banners of victories, accomplishments, and innovation. And around the corner, in another wing, memorials of war, death, and destruction.
Think of your own banners and memorials. Your first-place trophy versus the consolation ribbon. The wedding band you wear every day. Or the one rattling around in your junk drawer.
Triumph and defeat seem to be etched into the object’s “memory.” A permanent echo of the past— and only a glimpse of the object is enough to bring smiles or reopen wounds.
Fiction writing gives authors the ultimate platform to play with an object’s emotional and “what if” power. Think Hemingway’s six-word novel: For sale: baby shoes, never worn. Think of Tolkien’s ring sheltering its wearer in invisibility while heightening the senses. Think of Baum’s shoes and Lewis’s wardrobe transporting characters to magical worlds. Think of Lucas’s whip in the hands of Indiana Jones, or his glowing lightsaber in the hands of Luke Skywalker fighting evil in a galaxy far, far away.
None of the objects mean anything without the characters behind them. We love Frodo, Indiana, and Dorothy. We love our mothers and grandfathers and aunts and the occasional eccentric old bird-collector. Without the character, the connection is lost and the object really is diddly squat—just another trinket collecting dust.
I love the what-ifs of objects, especially old rusty and moth-eaten ones. What has that old camera seen? What about the globe that isn’t quite round anymore? That golden cat statue guarding the flower bed—is it marking the passing of a beloved pet? Or is it stolen, a token of some long-deserved revenge? The object sparks the wonder. The characters bring it to life…
Take a look around your home. Clean out the junk drawer or the top of the hall closet. When an object causes you to pause, hold it for a moment. Smell it. Examine it. Then close your eyes.
And remember.
