(no subject)

I have a weird sentimental attachment to things I got from my mom. She used to love giving me weird socks and such for Hallowe'en, or whenever she felt like it. Right now, I'm wearing a pair of fluffy white socks with lighthouses all over them. Each one says "Bar Harbor, Maine" at the top, near the elastic. I remember when I got them in the mail. She called up:

"Did you get the socks? I couldn't resist."

"The, um, the lighthouse ones?"

"Yes! I saw them in a store and couldn't help but laugh. They were so nerdy. I thought of you."

That's my mom. Never "dorky" or "geeky." Always "nerdy." I was a bit relieved to hear that she didn't quite mean them; I never was a big fan of Bar Harbor, except during the off-season when there's not much open besides the Thirsty Whale, and all of the picture-book rocky coastline is abandoned. But knowing she'd bought these things in a fit of whimsy just seemed appropriate. Plus, they were poofy and warm. What's not to like?

Two years ago, when we moved to Boston, she bought us a little tchotchke for the new place. It was a flat little ceramic book, maybe two inches across, with "One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish" on it, and little ceramic fishies floating above the pages affixed to ceramic ferns. She knew David liked Dr. Seuss, and that neither of us would probably buy anything that colorful on our own. Cheesy. But, you know, that's what moms do. It got stuck in a windowsill.

Six months later, a fish broke off; couldn't bear to get rid of it. By now, all of the fish are gone, all of the little ferns reduced to stumps, and I was finally forced to admit that it was so beyond trash that even I didn't want to look at it anymore. I tossed it today, but not easily. I reached back into the trash barrel and actually covered it with a bag so I couldn't see it in there. My lighthouse socks have lost all of the fluffy in the heels and you can see skin between the still-intact threads. I know I'm going to have an even harder time with these.

When I lost her keychain a couple of weeks ago, I beat myself up for the rest of the day. The weekend, really. Really, I'm still doing it: I liked that keychain. It bumped my right knee when I was driving, just like she always used to complain about. It had a nice heft to it.

This is useless, self-indulgent, thing-based nostalgia. But it's like: there is a limited supply of silly shit left! I will never get more!

I refuse to enshrine objects, though, even nice ones. My parents did the same thing. We grew up playing on the Family Furniture and eating off of (most of) the nice china. I think this gave me a healthy distaste for careful living, and I'm good with that. She'd be appalled if I savored a pair of socks. I just have to keep reminding myself, sometimes.