A Place For Everything in 1947
I love things that are handmade or well designed –I cannot pass up treasures that speak to me, regardless of whether I need them or not. Sadly, some of the treasures have no place to reside, and over time, I decide to part with them. This trunk is not one of them. I picked it up at the local flea market 25 years ago. The piece was rough, the paint was chippy and it was dirty, but for $30 I carted it home. After a great deal of cleaning, sanding, and sealing, it has resided in the upstairs hallway ever since, a depository for childhood toys and laundry baskets making their way upstairs. The box is made of heavy plywood, charmingly painted to look fancy. It has “Sally” and “1947” written in the yellow ribbon, and proudly proclaims “A place for everything, and everything in its place”. “Sally” was either a very well organized child who made the trunk, or her mother who wished her daughter would clean up a bit more.
There are times when I struggle emotionally, when things are uncertain or upsetting, and I need to control my life somehow. For as long as I can remember, my go-to was to clean. Stressful situation? At least my closets are clean, my sewing room organized, my belongings parsed down to only those things that are important. My need to organize is deeply rooted in my need to understand emotions and shed unnecessary belongings – or distresses. There is something remarkably cathartic in schlepping bags of unneeded [fill in the blank] to a thrift store for someone else to take on. The more stressed, busy or upset I am, the more organizing and cleaning I do.
The moms of my childhood playmates adored me – I would happily clean and organize their rooms. For fun. Odd I know, but putting things in order comes naturally to my brain, an inherited trait from my father. Dad would literally make a job chart each year; a graph that was posted in the kitchen with all 7 kids assigned a rotating list of chores for the entire year. Mow lawn (4 acres mind you), clean pool (huge by the way), do dishes. Dad was an equal opportunity employer as jobs were not assigned as “girl” or “boy”. I rebuilt a furnace, fiber glassed a dilapidated car (vintage Pinto anyone?), installed electrical lines, seal coated our long driveway, and was a “gopher” for Dad’s myriad household projects (go for this tool, go for that tool…). Which was an assigned chore: help dad on weekend projects. My father was an engineer, likely autistic by today’s standards, highly driven and ridiculously busy with his career, house, writing books. Kids? I know he loved us in his way, but he was not well versed with emotions. He ruled us with control and punishment. Which made it difficult for a highly emotional child to learn how to manage stress, upset and difficulties. I cannot say I am “better” these days, but at least I am aware, and work to manage what I could not as a child. And clean my closets beautifully.
Recently we were visiting my son’s family for a quick hello. Our 3 year old granddaughter was having difficulty at bedtime. She was throwing a full on tantrum, and my son and daughter were working hard to manage her upset, while exhausted and upset themselves. Eventually the little one quieted down, and when my daughter in law came down stairs, she shared what happened. My granddaughter, over wrought and melting down with tears, whimpered to her mother “Mommy, I am having a hard time with my emotions”. They turned to a tactile stuffed toy they use for managing upset and emotions, and proceeded to hug and talk. Dear god was I blown away by my granddaughter’s awareness, and her willingness to ask for help. And for the remarkable job my kids have done teaching their daughter how to manage emotions. Our world needs more parents like them – able to navigate emotionally turbulent children without resorting to control, punishment and restriction. I might need one of those emotional comfort toys. But, for now, I will keep cleaning my closets.