The point of writing, of writing this blog is to get stuff down. To tell our story. To put our history into words to be read down the road. I’ve been contemplating this a lot. Some times I just write for fun too. Or because we’ve had a great experience and I want other people to be inspired to get out there and have experiences, adventures. But sometimes it’s more personal, like today.
A few weeks ago I painted. Something I don’t do a lot of and quite frankly I’m not very good at. Normally I wouldn’t write about painting but as the project evolved it became more and more of a story I wanted to get down.
It started with my parents renovating the upstairs of their home. Renovations usually come with massive purges of things and at this point in their lifespan they’ve begun to minimize their “things” and just get back to basics, downsizing of sorts. So, I acquired my Dad’s old wardrobe. I needed something to put bit and bobs of things in and it seemed a perfect fit.
It sat in the garage for a few days before I decided I wanted to spice up the house with a bit of colour and finally went and got some paint. I’ve never used chalk paint and everyone raves about how easy it is to use, they are right, all of them, so easy. Well, I got the thing all painted up and was pretty pleased with myself then as I moved it into the house and reattached the original hardware this piece of furniture started to tell it’s story.
My sister was over visiting one day and she mentioned how the dresser seemed so short. We reminisced about trying to reach coins from the top of the wardrobe as little girls. How we boosted each other up to get change and then quickly jump on our bikes to ride to the nearby gas station for handfuls of 5 cent candies.
Then later I was filling the bottom drawer with games and began to tell my oldest son how this drawer was where my Dad, Pumpah as he calls him, kept his socks. I told him how I’d sneak into his room and pull out my favourite wooly pairs to wear to school. I told him how I did this so often I think Pumpah went with out socks a lot or how he’d come down the stairs and pull up my pants and demand his socks back, which I’d begrudgingly have to take off and return.
Where I stack my sewing fabrics and craft projects are where my Dad used to keep his sweaters. I’d even steal these to wear because wearing a big fuzzy warm sweater, especially your Dad’s, always feels good.
I’m so happy with how the project turned out the new version of my Dad’s wardrobe looks great, but what I’m really thrilled about is how filling up our home with things that have meaning, memories, love, has become important. How when I open the doors of the dresser that familiar slightly creaky sound makes me smile.
I’ve come across this quote a few times “collect moments not things.” I’m sure you must have heard this one too and probably think I’m crazy to believe I’m actually living this but I am. I truly think I am because some “things” are so full of memories it’s worth making an exception to the rule.