Inventory Project
I’m beginning to think it is possible that I have bitten off more than I can chew. Not that I’ve given up yet. But…
Some time ago, I decided that I would inventory and document everything in this house. Over the years I have done a bit of that – writing about various articles in the house that had relevance to a family story or to a particular point I was making. In Dear Medora, for instance, I documented many of the things that Medora and her mother talked about in their letters – often, toys that were given as Christmas gifts and, for one reason or another, are still in the house. Albert’s fire engine, for example. Albert died in 1908 at age five and the fire engine was tucked away in a closet for more than fifty years.
There’s a certain feeling of stewardship about living in a generational house. As I grow older, the responsibility weighs more heavily on me. I don’t know how many of the things in the house can be identified by younger family members. My grandmother’s wedding gifts are another example. Many pieces of the lovely old china and silver were given to her by family members – loved ones whose names are all but forgotten. Years ago I found a list of those presents and their givers, written in my grandmother’s hand in the days following her 1897 marriage.
Albert’s Fire Engine – circa 1905
So, I’ve begun a series of scrapbooks, photographing each item in the house – furniture, dishes, hand-sewn linens, paintings, vases. All of it. About each item I am writing what I know. For instance, there is an oil portrait of my grandmother at age three – an oil done by her great aunt (by marriage) Cleora Stone Richardson. This is what I’ve written:
Oil Portrait of Helen Richardson
Portrait of Helen Medora Richardson by Cleora Stone Richardson, 1881
This portrait of Helen was done about 1881 when she was
three years old by her great aunt Cleora Stone Richardson. Helen’s
mother was away tending a sick relative and had left
Helen’s father in charge of their daughter. Helen had a luxurious
mop of auburn curls and, after two or three days, her frustrated father
took her to his barber and had her hair cut to a ‘manageable’
length. According to family lore, when Helen’s mother returned
and saw Helen’s ‘boy cut,’ she was so angry that she refused
to share her husband’s bed until their daughter’s hair grew out.
So far I’ve filled three scrapbooks and I’m not yet halfway through the house and never mind inside cupboards and drawers. I’m seriously wondering why in the world I began this seemingly endless project. As I consider what will happen to the objects, themselves, I also try to imagine what will happen to the scrapbooks. Who will care? But, in the meantime, I feel compelled to continue. It’s what I do.
Yes, it is what I do too. Who will care? But maybe it will help some make those difficult decisions of what to do with it. Maybe.