Artifacts

Thirteen years ago, I packed up and officially moved away from home. I have talked about this time of my life here before. About what a big deal that was for my family. How it was so integral in shaping me into the person I am today. How hard it was. How lonely. But how rewarding it ultimately turned out to be.

I recently found pictures of that first "grown-up" apartment I moved into in downtown Milwaukee as I was digging around looking for photos to embarrass my friends on Facebook. It was so familiar, yet so foreign all at the same time. First, was my decorating style. Ugh! You would have thought a little old lady lived there, not a spunky, 22-year-old Mary Tyler Moore wannabe.

There is very little in those photos that resembles my current style. And as I thought about it, I realized there is not really much of anything from that apartment that's even in this house. The Pier One flip out couch? Sold when I moved out of there to room with a friend. The kitchen table and chairs? Donated to a younger cousin when he bought his first house. Same with all the floral-patterned decor. But this time to a different cousin, married much too young and setting up a home on a shoestring budget. We donated the already-second-hand bedroom furniture to charity when we bought our condo. And I'm on my second set of dishes since packing up the whole matched Pfaltzgraff set I had back then. Who knows what became of the fish-themed bath accessories or all those brass lamps that were scattered around the place? And the wicker. My god, the wicker! Remnants from my childhood bedroom. Some of it might still be back at my mom's, but I seem to recall that finding its way to a new home as well.

There are a few things I will never let go of. The afghan my Grandma Lou crocheted for me. I can see it in those photos and I can see it in my bedroom right now. A pair of wooden salt and pepper shakers that my Uncle Danny made for me on the lathe in his workshop and a small wall shelf he made for my parents. Those are precious, timeless mementos from people who meant so very much to me. But I don't so much associate them with that apartment or that time in my life as with the people who made them.

Only one thing remains that entered my life 13 years ago, specifically for that apartment. Something my mom and I bought on one of our many shopping trips to furnish, decorate and equip my new home. And I remember how clever we thought it was, this kidney-shaped laundry basket, with one side curved in instead of out so it fit better on your hip as you carried it around. This was particularly handy for me, as I would have to walk down four flights of stairs to get to the shared laundry room in that building. And it has carried many a load of laundry since that time. From the days when I only washed my own clothes, to when Hubbz and I first started playing house, to the family of four who now generates more laundry than I could have imagined. Other baskets have joined its ranks, but they were always cheaper, flimsier. Never as solid and reliable as Old Faithful.*

It has had a good, long 13-year run, but it seems my time with the clever laundry basket is short. After more than a decade of use, one of its handles recently came loose. It still does the job of holding laundry. But it's a bit of a crap shoot if you have to carry it too far. The handle is broken off on one side, making for a lopsided load, that is likely to very soon render it uncarryable. (Is that a word? It should be.)

And while I did go out and buy a replacement basket, with that same novel design concept, when it first broke, Old Faithful remains. Maybe because we actually need that many laundry baskets now or maybe because I have such ridiculously vivid memories of buying it. My mom and I had so much fun getting me ready for that apartment. I look back now and realize it must have been both excruciating and exhilarating for her. Watching her daughter, her first-born, heading off away from home for really the first time since I went to college about 15 minutes away from home. I know she was so proud of me, but it had to be hard. Only through parenthood, I think, can you experience both heart-breaking sadness and heart-swelling pride at the same time.

The basket came from Kohl's and we had never seen anything quite like it before then. Small town rubes we most certainly are! It cost more than other laundry baskets, but it was solid, strong, and had that clever little indent on one side. "That'll be handy!" It was filled with small items when we packed the moving truck to head to Milwaukee, and again every other time I have moved. It has been a faithful soldier in my war against laundry, which I really, really hate to do. It's been dropped and kicked, overloaded and neglected for the last 13 years, and I think it has earned its retirement. But I just can't seem to part with it. I'm thinking maybe it will take up residence in the garage, holding the inflatable pool and water toys that are going to be put into storage soon. I simply can't bear the idea of throwing it away, which I know sounds ridiculous, as does this entire post, I suppose. (Did she just write a whole post about a laundry basket? Yes, well she also posted a photo of dog vomit and wrote a tribute to crossing guards. What do you expect?)

But I guess it's not just about a laundry basket. It's about a moment in time that turned into something momentous. And, as they say, sometimes it's the little things that matter most.

What are you holding onto?

* For the record, I did not name my laundry basket. This is simply a literary device employed for the purpose of this post.