The Things Called Life

My great-uncle recently went to live in a nursing home. He is 92 years along in life. In the process of having an estate sale for the contents of his home, I was given the bedroom suite that he and my late great-aunt used for many, many years. I prefer old furniture to new furniture. I especially like it that there are a few scratches here and there on the bed and chest. It’s always disheartening when you make that first little scratch or dent on a piece of furniture or your car. But once it’s done, the pressure’s off and the second scratch isn’t quite so disappointing (for me, the third one doesn’t even matter).
Going through my uncle’s home and preparing items for sale or boxing up items, it occurred to me that in the end, things just get given away, tossed or sold. That’s just what you do with "things." So I vowed right then and there that I would start reducing my "things" down to the bare essentials as I get older and closer to my own "estate sale." I will prepare a box of sentimental "things" for my son and that will be it. He’s not very sentimental at all, which is normal for someone 21 years old. I’m hopeful that will change as he grows older and he will begin to care about having my journals, scrapbooks, writings, etc. I want him to understand the value of certain possessions that tell the history of someone’s life. From the age of 16 to 22 I wrote a letter once a year to my "unborn children." Sound wacky? Perhaps. But I recorded significant historical information such as the top ten songs on the radio, my favorite TV shows, how much a 45 cost (that's a small vinyl disc that plays music), how much a McDonald’s hamburger cost, how I feel about being 16, etc. Each one of these letters is entitled "Teresa at 16, "Teresa at 17." They’re not very long and it’s really just a summary of the year and some random thoughts. I thought it might be interesting for my children (I thought back then that I would have three children) to read what I wrote when I was 16 when they were 16 and on and on. I had my son when I was 23 years old. That’s when the letters stopped and I just continued keeping a journal (although somewhat randomly). When my son turned 16 I told him about the letters and proudly gave him the one I wrote when I was 16. He said, ‘Okay, thanks. I’ll read it later" and laid it on top of his computer desk. Heaven forbid that a handwritten letter of such historical significance compete with the internet. A week later, as the letter began gathering dust, I put it back in my folder of letters and returned it to the box in the closet. He never asked where the letter went and I never showed him any of the others! One day he’ll be interested in reading them. I’m sure of it.
So back to my great uncle.
I wonder what it means to my uncle to realize that the home you built and lived in for many, many years and all it’s contents are gone. Sold. Given away. Thrown away. His current stash of "things" is now down to what can easily fit in one banker’s box. A few framed photos, a financial ledger, magnifying glasses, a Bible, a few trinkets. A lifetime of stuff shrunk to one box. A house full of rooms reduced to one small room in an institutional facility.
Is that life? Sometimes, I suppose, it is.