This Shirt...

"This shirt is old and faded
All the color's washed away
I've had it now for more damn years
Than I can count anyway
I wear it beneath my jacket
With the collar turned up high
So old I should replace it
But I'm not about to try" - Mary Chapin Carpenter -

This is one of my very favorite songs, not just because I have a couple of those old shirts, but because it reminds me of all the beloved, well-worn, deeply meaningful things that we hang onto.   

We have a tattered copy of an old children's book that was my husband's when he was little, which he read over and over to our sons when they were young.  There was a whole ritual around the reading of that book - the three of them cuddled up together in a big chair, my husband deliberately reading errors, the boys shouting corrections with great delight; they couldn't read yet, but they had memorized that book and loved that time with their Dad.  When we are gone, I suspect that's one piece of memorabilia they may fight over.

I have a collection of stones from favorite vacation places (what can I say - I'm a cheap date). When I look at one, I remember a particularly challenging and rewarding vacation in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area in northern Minnesota. Another one reminds me or our first trip to visit our oldest son who had moved to New Zealand, and wanted to share the many remarkable aspects of his new temporary home.  I have another one that I brought back from our second visit to New Zealand and placed on my mother's grave, since my son had been unable to travel home for her funeral. I have seashells from a visit to our younger son when he moved to live and work in Vancouver, BC, and others from the first long trip my husband and I took following our retirement.  I actually DO remember which is from which place, which trip - and they give me something tangible to touch as a remembrance, though I know that for many people a photo would do as well, or better.

My garden is filled with plants dug from relatives, previous homes, friends; when I walk through my yard, the daylilies and peonies remind me of my father in-law, the white hydrangea of my mom, the wild pink rose of our cottage, the primroses of my aunt, the clematis of my dearest friend, and a certain dark iris of her mother.  My garden walks are thus filled with the happiest of memories, and probably one of the reasons working in the yard is such a joy for me, rather than a tedious task.

It might be hard to explain to someone else why you've read a particular book so many times that the cover is coming off, but you wouldn't exchange it for a new copy. It might be impossible for others to understand why you bring a rock home from vacation, or move a plant from one home to the next over many years as you move, rather than just buying a replacement at the new place.  No one else HAS to really understand; it it's important to you, if it gives you deep comfort, or remarkable pleasure, or triggers fond memories, these keepsakes have value, whether old and faded or not.