While I joked earlier this week that we may need to take prayer breaks every 30 minutes, it seemed only fitting that my dad opened the “auction” with a prayer.  He prayed that we would remember that we can’t take things with us to our grave and that our family relationships are more important than any items we may take home (or not take home) today.  In other words, no fighting, folks!

Today was the day where we divided up my grandma’s belongings.  Since we moved her into the nursing home earlier this year, we’ve been renting a storage unit for stuff.  It’s been long-coming, I guess, but still hard to process as I gazed over all of the rows of tables with endless amounts of pots, pans, pictures, knick-knacks, and patty-whacks.  Everything was so old.  My grandma never threw anything away so I guess you could say that now, most of the items probably have value that they never had before when they were just her every-day items.  But mostly, beyond the antique value that they may have now, they are special to us, her offspring.  So it was with some trepidation that we gathered for The Great Massacre for her belongings.  We swallowed our greed and put our “wish lists” aside and took our turns from oldest to youngest and back up to oldest again.  Amazingly, no blood was shed.

My grandma has never been rich.  She raised 6 children by herself on a farm.  (My grandpa passed away when my dad was only 12.)  You could call her hard-working.  You could call her strong-willed.  You could call her one tough mama.  But you couldn’t call her wealthy.  Yet as I took my camera through the rows of things, table after table, the memories that flooded over me were worth more to me in that moment that any monetary inheritance she could have saved up for us.

The wonder of it all is that each item means so many different things to different people.  So when it came my turn to pick, I went for the items that meant something to me personally; not for the items that would be considered antique collectables by now.  I went for the ancient Lite Brite that still works; the one that still has unpunched black design papers because Grandma never wanted us to use them all.  I went for the container of wooden beads because I strung those beads for hours as a little girl on her green couch with the brown afghan hanging behind me over the armrest.  I went for the game of Rack-O that I played with my grandma at her kitchen table.  I went for Tiddly Winks because Grandma always beat me at that game.

I didn’t walk away with Buddy, the very special doll that Grandma would let Megan and I babysit overnight sometimes, or the bookshelf that used to house her complete collection of encyclopedias.  But I walked away with other things that were valuable to me.

These are little pieces of my grandma.  Little pieces that I get to keep to show my someday-children.  When none of their friends know how to play Tiddly Winks or string up wooden beads, you better believe that my kids will.  When none of their friends know about the light-up toy that magically makes colorful images appear–because you have to wait to plug it in until the very end!–my kids will know how to plunk those little colored buttons into the holes.  Those special moments with my grandma will live on for generations.

I can’t take things to my grave, but these memories I can hold onto forever.   So I’m holding, folks, tighter than you’d imagine.