I hope non-members will be able to read the linked story (on Medium), it gets at something that's occupied my mind of late as I battle mice (GOT to find how they're getting in and block it off; the peppermint repellant seems to be helping) and look in dismay at my too-many-books (will take more to the library tomorrow to donate) and the too-much yarn (not sure what to do with that, the places I've looked toward donating it aren't taking yarn)
But yes: "Stop erasing yourself before you're gone"
A couple of pull quotes:
"...some homes now look less like places where human beings lived and more like emotionally unavailable Airbnbs.
Gray walls. One beige throw blanket. Three identical candles that smell vaguely like eucalyptus and tax fraud. No photographs. No collections. No weird ceramic rooster from 1987.
No evidence of joy."
And while I admit, yes, I have too much stuff, and it's suboptimally stored, and yes, I really SHOULD donate all those books I've weeded - the author is right. If you try to live like you will leave no traces, you're not really living.
And yes, I've heard the "no one wants your junk" argument, and yes, that's probably true - too many people today can't settle down because they can't AFFORD to settle down, and so having a weird ceramic rooster from 1987, or a lot of books, or craft supplies, becomes a burden if you have to move frequently, or if you share an apartment made for two people with four roommates,, and that's probably why antique shops are dying (And yet, where I live, thrift stores boom,because everyone's broke, and the way to get new-to-you clothing, or to get kitchenwares if, for example, you had to up and leave a bad partner situation and you couldn't take anything. But that's different, that's necessity shopping, not fun shopping)
But things do matter. The author writes about losing her stepdaughter and how the young woman's hoodie and hairbrush became precious to her and her husband (I presume, the stepdaughter's biodad) because "And those things became sacred to my then husband and me. Not because they were valuable. Because they were proof. Proof that she had been here. That she laughed. Planned things. Got distracted. Loved certain colors. Wrote down grocery lists and dreams and frustrations like the rest of us do."
And what made me think of that was something I did today. I started the Clean Air Act in my course on environmental policy, and I brought in something I retrieved when my mom and I went through all the boxes of stuff my dad had taken from his office when he retired, and refused to sort. It was this:
It's the Federal Register publication of some of the standards of the Clean Air Act. It was sent to him when he was at University of Akron by the Representative from the district we were in (Charles A. Mosher). I don't remember if he was Coordinator of Research at that point (I would have still been a toddler) or if he was a professor then. But it reminds me of that era, and the environmental contacts he had, and I remember a lot of other things - the going out to metroparks, and hearing about Seiberling Nature Center (I was remembering him as another governmental official, but at least that Seiberling was a rubber baron. I guess his son John was the Congressman). And so it brings back early memories of being in Ohio, a place I weirdly miss more and more now.
Anyway. I bring it to class. I explain its provenance and hand it around with the warning that it's more than 50 years old, it's on that high-acid newsprint paper that crumbles easily, be careful with it. And they always are. I saw several of the students very carefully and almost-reverently looking over it, and that made me happy. It's a weird, probably-worthless piece of ephemera, but it means a lot to me. (I keep saying I need to get one of those Mylar sleeves like they use to protect comic books - it's the standard 8 1/2 x 11 paper size - but I've never seen just single sleeves for sale anywhere and I don't want to buy 100)
I wonder what my dad would think if he knew I was handing that odd old document around while I talk about the Clean Air Act.
I have another thing of his, this was something that was up in his office, and now it's up in mine:
I've titled its file "Manifesto" on my computer because it is the thing closest to a manifesto I have - the importance of teaching and learning, and that "What value will it be to make a prosperous living, unless you know how to live?"
It's on my little "Keep on keepin on" wall on my file cabinet, along with a few postcards folks have sent me, and a poem my paternal grandfather wrote, and some little trinkets like the reproduction Kilauea Crater benchmark and the LOTR quotation magnet ("There is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for") and while I admit some days it's hard to FEEL some of those things (especially about the good in the world), I keep those things up. To remind myself. Just like I keep that bit of the Clean Air Act to remind myself of how my father went before me and how there were other people from my past who, if it's not too pretentious to say it, whose banner I am trying to carry forward into the future.
I admit I don't feel the hope and the idealism as much as I did when I was younger (it started to fade about 10 years ago, at the time of the budget failure here, and also when a former student of ours was arrested, tried, and imprisoned for committing fraud on the job, and it's continued to wane through the pandemic and now with the rise of AI ("you can tell your students they can't use it but that won't necessarily stop them, and other faculty will encourage them to").
I try to grab on to and recapture what I can - a good discussion in class, a fun lab. The other day a colleague told me one of her students said that I was her favorite professor and she particularly noted how much she enjoyed Ecology. (I didn't ask for a name, felt I didn't need to know it, but my colleague did say this was a medical-sciences major, not a fish-and-wildlife major).
And yes, some of those reminders of the past DO help. Help me remember a more idealistic time, and a time when the world seemed more new and things seemed more possible.
And yes, I still miss my father for many reasons, even if the acute grief is long gone.


















