Knick-knackery became part of my grief therapy when my mother died of cancer.

When I was a kid, my mom and her lady friends used to "go antiquing."

We lived in Central Indiana near a world-renowned flea market called Shipshewana.

Even after I finally got to go--which is a story all its own, let me tell you--it always seemed a magical place with wonders and amazements around every corner.

And, the people watching!

I still wonder about each piece, each item. Who cherished it? Who gave it to them? Why?

Had it been one of those rare gifts that hits the mark and warms both giver and getter? Or had it been freighted with emotional baggage, like a make-up gift after a big fight?

My mom and I both hated shopping for clothes and shopping at the mall, in general. But, she loved her antiquing and her eighties ladies.

Mom collected clowns and Dutch for me, she said. She collected pigs, fawns and deer, wall pockets, and starch shakers for her.

Meantime, Dad collected Lladro and crystal for her, he said.

Sometime in the last, ahem, forty years, she also picked up The China Set. That she never liked but dutifully trotted out on special occasions. I've never been certain if it was her mom's or her mom's moms.

(My grandparents eloped during the Depression and the dates of production for The China Set ran from '38 to '78. So, probably not Great Gramma H's then.)

As an only child, when my mom died, I inherited all of it.

Almost immediately.

Whereas Mom's therapy skewed towards bargain hunting and reminiscing, Dad's has always been the open road and staying busy.

That's why, just a few months after she passed, he packed it all up and pulled it 1500 miles down to me.

Not like that was overwhelming or anything.

Being surrounded by my mom's cherished treasures and her clunkers, too. Oh yeah, I know which things she liked and which things she kept out of obligation. I probably won't tell you that in the product descriptions, though.

I'm not sure if it was upbringing or Mom's spirit itself or Divine inspiration, but I've been thrift shopping in the "Housewares" aisles since she died.

Which is to say, I've been adding to the vast numbers of Things To Be Dusted.

I didn't have the faintest notion why I was behaving this way. Who needs more stuff?

Eventually, I came to realize that I was supplementing my mom's stuff with Other People's Mom's Stuff. That cushioned the ache in my chest.

It made the pull on my heart strings something bearable. Where they had been winched taut, they found some ease.

I can sell Other People's Mom's (& Dad's) Stuff without feeling guilty or ashamed that I'm not "keeping it in the family" or that I'm "dishonoring their memory." It's just stuff.

Really lovely special stuff that has a story to tell. And a story that's not finished.

If all goes well, I might be able to sell some of My Mom's Stuff and feel okay about it.

I'm calling it "Inherited Kindnesses" -- because that's what I did.

~~~

Thank you for reading my story. You probably understand and I appreciate that, wherever you are. May you and yours be well and whole.