Whenever a death occurs there’s always a cleaning out that follows. It may be a house or apartment, a hospital or nursing home room—maybe even just a closet and a drawer—but somewhere the items that represent that person’s life are tucked safely away, waiting for the day when they will pass to the next generation . . . or Goodwill, whichever is deemed appropriate.
It was that way when my grandfather died, and my step-grandmother eventually remarried. According to his wishes, she was allowed to remain in the home they had shared until her death or remarriage. We loved her dearly and had no problem with her staying. Besides, as long as she was there, we didn’t have to tackle the distribution of personal property and emptying of the family abode. But the day came when she found someone else with whom she wanted to share her life . . . and our reprieve came to an end.
As we all sat in the living room, preparing to claim those items we wanted, I knew there were only two things in that house for which I would ask. I might receive more, but I would have left quite content if I was only given Charlie Weaver’s “Letters from Mamma” and my grandfather’s two volume set of “Lorna Doone”, printed in 1922.
Whenever the family met at my paternal grandparents’ home to share a meal followed by a business discussion, my brother and two cousins would play upstairs while the adults remained at the dining room table, pondering the future. I was in the middle—far too young to understand the facts and figures being tossed about and a hair too old to be running around with the “children”. So, I settled into the rose colored, velvet Victorian horsehair chair that sat next to the fireplace and read “Letters from Mamma” while pulling random strands of horsehair through the velvet. Every. Single. Time. “Lorna Doone” was on the list because my grandfather had always wanted me to read it, but with almost 300 pages of tiny print per book, it was a bit daunting for a pre-teen. I never managed it and that was a failure I desperately needed to correct. (Spoiler alert . . . I still haven’t.)
The process was repeated when my husband’s grandmother died in May of 1992. The actors were different, but the script remained the same. We all gathered in her den and kitchen and began tentatively laying claim to her earthly possessions, with my mother-in-law—her daughter—having first dibs. My Kathryne, who was nine at the time, only had two requests—her grandmother’s hats and her set of Dragon Dominoes. Somehow, she also ended up with “Miss” Emma’s weasel (aka fox) stole (you know, the kind that chases itself around your neck, biting its own tail in order to stay put?). And her square grand piano because “Miss” Emma officially willed it to her as the only female great-grandchild.
The hats had been a source of dress-up joy for years and the dominoes had provided hours of playtime for the two of them. “Miss” Emma loved her great-grandchildren dearly and voluntarily kept my two (her only two at the time) several days a week while I worked. The dominoes were perfect for stacking or standing on end since the corners were sharp, 90-degree angles instead of gently rounded like the ones you find today. And on the back of each one was a carved dragon, curling from one end to the other, his ornate tail arching over his back and his long, pointed tongue hanging from his mouth.
Not long ago, Kathryne and her son—my grandson—Malcolm were at the house. I had recently cleaned out the once inaccessible game closet and moved everything to a new, more user-friendly location. Including the dominoes. She found them and promptly called Malcolm over. Together they opened the box and began setting them up so when they were done, they could lightly tap the first one and watch as each successive domino fell. It was the same thing she had done so many times before with her great-grandmother. And now she could share that joy . . . and that memory . . . with her son while telling him about the great-great-grandmother he would never know.
I don’t care what people say about material possessions not being important and you don’t need something that belonged to someone you love because you have your memories. That may work for some folks, but not for me (which means I have become the repository for all things ancestorial that no one else wants—sorry, kids). And if ever I needed proof to substantiate my belief in that regard, all I have to do is look at a box of Dragon Dominoes that was purchased years ago from Savannah Drugs. It may not be in the best shape, given the number of little hands that have played with its contents over the years, but it holds five generations of memories. Memories that warm us every time it is opened.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
