Holding onto the past

For a few days this week, I held the past in my hands. Let me explain.

We have an extra room that used to be my Home Interior office and storage area. For the past few years, it has become the “I don’t know where to put this” room. I have declared 2026 my Year of the Great Purge.

I’m sentimental to a fault. The “I remember” moments have kept me from letting go of the things that hold sentimental value. For me, it’s not so much about the monetary value but the treasure in my heart vault.

One reason I felt I needed to purge things was that if I did not wake up one morning, I did not want to burden my daughter, Emily, or my daughter-in-love, Angie, with sorting through that room and all my stuff. I could hear them saying, “What was she thinking? Did she really think we would need (or want) all these doilies, picture frames, wooden signs, books, and home décor?”

It wasn’t difficult to pack those into my Ford Flex and take them to St. Vincent DePaul. I worked for three days until my back said, “You are done!” My bender reminded me of my age.

The difficult moments were holding on to something my heart wasn’t ready to let go of. I admit to sitting with a few pictures and remembering the people in them who are no longer here, and the tears reminded me how very much they loved me.

There was a letter my mother wrote about my adoption. There were pictures of her looking at me when I was a baby. I could hear her thoughts … for this child, I prayed. I treasure these memories and tuck them into a frame for safekeeping.

I picked up a letter I had written in the summer of 1973 to my mom and dad. I was at church camp and very homesick. I was so young and so naive. My mother had kept that letter.

Picture albums remain stacked in the Hoosier Cabinet. Pictures stored in a phone don’t have the same feel as those in albums. As pages turn, stories are told.

Opening boxes that held memories of my children growing up felt like reliving moments that took me back to my days as a young mother, when the days were long. Oh, how quickly those days passed. Did I actually coach my son Brandon’s baseball team when he was six? Did I perm Emily’s bangs when she was 10? Pictures proved both to be true.

It’s funny the things I remember as I go through boxes. Some things hug my heart, and my eyes leak. Other things leave me shaking my head and asking why I felt the need to hang onto bronzed baby shoes or participant ribbons. Both Brandon and Emily memorized Bible verses when they were kids. Back then, I remember thinking, “I hope they remember them in their hearts when they get older.”

All the while the rain was coming down on Wednesday, I was making countless trips to load up my car and the trash bins. St. Vincent DePaul got quite the haul on Thursday.

I wiped a few tears as I went down Memory Lane this week. It’s not as crowded as it was before the Great Purge.

The boxes that remain hold a lifetime of memories of a 70-year-old woman who has been blessed beyond measure.

Emily and Angie, I know you will thank me someday. I hope you take the time to read a few letters, look at a few pictures, and realize you are holding love in your hands. The past holds a lot of it. I know, because I held it in my hands this week.

Janet Hart Leonard can be contacted at janethartleonard@gmail.com or followed on Facebook or Instagram (@janethartleonard). She is the recipient of the Reporter’s Spring 2025 Ink-Stained Wretch award. Visit janethartleonard.com.