STASH

I have always thought of the word "stash" as a noun. As in the fabric stash of a quilter -- piles of rich wonderful fabric in all colors and patterns just waiting to become part of the next quilt, or at least some future quilt. OR the yarn stash of a knitter -- groups of wooly threads in a variety of textures and hues begging to become the next sweater or hat or mittens or at least some soothing, warm garment in future.

Now I am looking at the word as a verb -- as in "to stash." The dictionary tells me that it is a putting away into a secret place for some future time/use. Hmmmm. Today's declutter was just such a stash. A heart wrenching, meandering into the past. The newspaper used to line the box was dated November 19, 1963, two days before the assassination of President Kennedy and two days before the closing for this house I still inhabit. Forty four years. Doesn't even look like the box was ever opened, or if it was, just to peek in and then put away again.

Inside the box there are three tiny shoe boxes: one contains the soft, delicate, white, leather shoes from my husband's infancy. Just think, his mother kept them for all her memory years and now here I am opening them up again, the memories having died with her too many years ago. And yet I have the shoes. The two other boxes seem to be the first and second pair of shoes from our first son. The sales slips remain in the boxes with the well worn, high topped, many times polished, white, lace ups. All those memories of first steps and first falls.

A white sweater, still new, in its original wrapping. Kimonos made by my grandmother and her sister for this first grandchild. Stained, but neatly pressed and folded before being packed away. First birthday outfits. Buntings, some well worn, one still new and unworn. Bankies. A hand embroidered quilt done by my mother when she was awaiting my birth. Embroidered carriage robes done by my mother-in-law for her first born.

I keep the shoes, the quilt from my mother, first birthday outfits. The rest can go to babies who really need them. They certainly are not very serviceable stashed away in box on a shelf to be opened one day when all the memories have passed on with me.