The patchwork of memory - by Lu Hersey

My partner moved in with me recently, and to avoid either of us falling over furniture or stubbing our toes on unexpected boxes, we needed to clear a lot of stuff. Worse, my father has had to move into a care home, which means I'm trying to sort and clear stuff at his place too - which is all making me think minimalism is blooming good idea. 

But there are always some things you want to keep, even if they serve no practical purpose. Inside a big wooden chest I found a patchwork quilt, made long ago by my grandmother's family (seriously long ago - she was born in 1881).  Grandma was the 13th of 14 children, and I remember her telling me that anyone who visited the house when she was young had to sew a piece onto the quilt before they were allowed to leave. She said the tiny purple velvet pieces were from the mourning collar and bows she wore attached to her clothing when her father died. In fact to her, every fragment of fabric in the intricate patchwork represented a memory of a dress or blouse, or something from the household like tablecloths - a design made of memories of her family and friends, gathered by the fireside in Yorkshire, long ago.

I thought about why I wanted to keep it, now it's too fragile to use on a bed or hang on a wall. What does it mean to me? Perhaps not as much as it meant to Grandma, but it instantly conjures my memory of her  - an old woman I loved dearly, who came to live with us when I was a child. The smell of Foxes Glacier Mints and 4711 cologne. And how this patchwork quilt always rested at the end of her bed. But what will it mean to my children when I go? Even less. They might remember me telling them about my grandmother and how many brothers and sisters she had, that's all. 

Anyway, all this stuff moving has got me thinking about our memories, and the things that are important to us.

Take my father. At 96, living in a care home, his memory gets patchier by the day. After he's had a nap (he generally has at least a couple every day), he thinks it's the next day when he wakes up and demands another breakfast. The care home staff obligingly present him with one, regardless of the time - which seems like a good way to deal with someone whose reality is different and who lives two or three days in one. Like a hobbit, he has at least two breakfasts, as well as elevenses and lunch, afternoon tea and a supper or two. He also believes it's his birthday at least once every month, and I've started sending presents to avoid him getting upset and thinking we've forgotten him.

But his house, which he lived in for 50 years, refusing to move while either of his wives (not simultaneously) lived with him there, means nothing at all to him now. He never mentions it. His life is his breakfasts and birthdays, and lugubriously lamenting his forthcoming death (though he's actually not in any pain, and is well cared for). All that stuff he hoarded, that garden he worked on, those books that fill his bookcases - all meaningless to him. 

The main thing I'm learning from all this is that the things people insist on hanging onto are mostly very unimportant. Maybe keep them if they hold a memory of someone dear to you, but don't expect that object, whatever it is, to mean much to anyone else. There'll probably come a time when it won't even mean anything to you. In the end, only the people and pets you hold (or held) dear are important. (And breakfasts, if you're my dad)

For now I'll keep the patchwork quilt and maybe find some way to preserve it - a piece of folk art that people might find interesting. But the stories, like the people who made it, are long gone. That's just the way of things. How very cluttered the world would be if it wasn't.

Lu Hersey

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