Here in the U.S., we just celebrated Thanksgiving, the day when we are supposed to share our bounty and declare all the things that we are thankful for. This time of the year is not the time to be whining about what’s been lost, you know, stuff. We’re even supposed to free ourselves of stuff. While my Lost Things are just stuff, they are essential stuff. And, I would be ever so thankful if my stuff made its way back to me. It’d be a glorious Christmas or Hanukkah or other winter holiday miracle!
The memories of the lost stuff have stuck with me. Some items have only been gone a year or two, some decades. But I want them all back no matter how long they’ve been away. If you happen to have my stuff, it is not yours. Those pieces are my property and were not given away freely. You are in possession of stolen goods.
In thinking about all this stuff, I got to wondering why I was even thinking about the stuff in the first place. Are our worldly possessions more than stuff? Some mementos are. Some of the stuff whose loss I’ve felt the longest and feel the worst about are related to family. The items spark sentimental feelings, of course. But what is sentiment? Proof that those who bestowed us with the special items existed? And by owning the items, we too exist? And, if we don’t exist in a physical and meaningful way, later in turn able to leave something behind, do we or should we exist at all? And worse than this existential flogging is that in addition to my tragic feelings, my grandmother thought I didn’t like and got rid of these items.
Oh, how did I love thee? Let me recount the ways, the ways that you were lost that is.
FAMILY ARTICLE ONE
The first item to join the land of loss was my grandmother’s old camera. It was from the 40’s I believe. She had noticed that I liked dabbling with my camera so she shared her old one with me.
I had so much fun looking into the viewfinder hood on top and pushing the button on the side. I felt like I really worked to get the picture more than with the modern point-and-click. I felt like a budding photographer. The loss of that item feels like the loss of that interest or hobby; like it was taken away before it could develop. {Oooh, a pun!}
FAMILY ARTICLE TWO
Even worse to lose, though, was a piece of jewelry; my grandmother’s rose gold lock baby bracelet.
Hurt. So. Bad. She gave it to me for a birthday. I loved it! At the time, rose gold wasn’t all the rage, so it was also unique. Since it had been originally made for a baby’s wrist, she had 10 – 12 regular 14K gold links and a clasp added to it. That damn clasp never did work right. I wore it a lot and everywhere. And then one day, it was gone. I cried and cried. I wanted to disappear as the bracelet had. The bracelet likely fell off while walking down Island Drive on Bay Farm Island in Alameda, CA late ’85 or early ’86. I searched the trail, the bushes and plants; even my paths to, from, and around school, and nothing. I felt like I was no longer going to exist once this loss became common knowledge.
CAREER ARTICLE ONE
No facet of life is immune from the loss of stuff and the feelings it inspires. In the workplace, the loss of a job I didn’t see coming, a trauma I’ve never recovered from, was compounded by the loss of items acquired to help recover from said traumatic job loss. After periods of shock, anger, mourning, and more anger, I tried to pull it together to move forward. It took a few months, but I’d landed another job to tie me over, but I kept searching and had lined up interviews in New York at CBNC, MSNBC, and a couple of smaller companies. Having never received much in salary, my wardrobe for interviewing – interviewing in NYC! – was quite lacking. A then friend and (former) co-worker had a second job at Saks Fifth Avenue. He found great items from the sales racks, applied his employee discount, and I had stylish pieces with which to look the mature, capable, talented adult part I was trying to land. Even with the financial assist, could I afford these items? Hell no! But, I was investing in my career, in myself, and I looked good in those clothes.
Then on Dec. 4, 1999, I packed my purposely not-black rolling suitcase and flew to JFK. After landing, I made it to baggage claim and went to claim my green rolling suitcase on the conveyor belt. And it wasn’t mine!! In short, someone had taken my bag, maybe by mistake, but didn’t contact me or the airline to return it. That’s theft!
I interviewed in the clothes I’d worn on the plane. Outwardly, I made light of the airline mishap, but inwardly, I was a shriveled-up teen, not dressed like a professional adult to be taken into serious consideration for adult jobs (at slightly above teenage pay). They were the nicest and most expensive items I’ve ever owned and never got to wear them. I still had to pay for them, though.
Now, we can say, those items were just clothes, just more stuff. But, if clothes are frivolous other than as body coverings, why do we “dress the part”, “put our best selves forward”, or have the saying “the clothes make the person”? Why are there dress codes or dress expectations based on the setting or event? Because special pieces of clothing – not the basic run-to-the-store stuff – represent a little piece of ourselves that we’re sharing with the world. And my special mature adult self stuff was nicked with that bag!
LIFE ARTICLE ONE
Sometimes our stuff stems not from who we are or what we want to be, but from what could have been. And that’s where my last ache comes from. As a wee tot of boundless energy, I wanted to take dance. This desire did not wane with the passing years. Then, a couple of handful of years back, I accidentally got myself committed to a dance class. I suck, most definitely, but I love it. I felt good after class in body and mind.
It was fun to entertain thoughts of better dancing days. Along with acquiring meager skills, I slowly compiled the gear necessary for class – skirts, leotards, shoes, wraps, rinse, repeated, and a bag to haul my stuff in. And when I moved, I made sure to carefully pack that dance stuff, the dance bag complete with a hand-made patch of the Torkado character my son created.
Also tucked in with my gear was a beloved out-of-print Oaklandish sweatshirt that I planned to sport around my non-CA new home.
The bag was labeled with my name and destination. When the movers “lost” it, I was devastated. I retraced for the movers, all of the places they said that my possessions had been. They did nothing. When delivering my items, the movers had a lost item from another move packed onto my same truck. The owner had offered a reward for its return. At unloading, I didn’t yet know my bag was missing and why pay a reward to return what I’d already paid to have moved? Sounds like a scam to me. But of all the bags or boxes to lose – NOOOOOOO, not that one! I am not done healing my inner child who wanted to dance. And, that shit’s expensive!
So, dear stuff, you touched me. You connect my life to that of family, career pursuits, and childhood longings. I think of you often. My stuff existed, therefore I am. I hope you make your way back home. I would consider this the best winter holiday gift!!
And remember: If you have these lost goods, they are not yours. You’re in possession of stolen property. Give them back, no questions asked. 😊 It would be the best holiday gift ever!