It was Thanksgiving night and my son and I stood in the bedroom, staring into the abyss that was my great-grandfather’s trunk. Well, technically I suppose it was my great-grandmother’s trunk since he died first and left everything to her. Or maybe it belonged to both of them. I just know when she died it was moved into the attic of the apartment at the top of the stairs in what is now the old funeral home in Savannah. It was the apartment just down the landing from the one she called home for 20 plus years—the one that was eventually occupied by my maternal grandmother. When she moved out, we converted the attic to a bedroom, disposing of the bags of bags . . . and the plethora of plastic knives and forks and spoons . . . and the piles of newspapers . . . and the trunk came to live with me.
We had finished our non-traditional (but maybe future traditional) Thanksgiving meal of homemade veggie beef and chicken noodle soups (please note the “s”—those ingredients were not contained in one soup), complete with cornbread and leftover desserts from the night before when my brother and his family had joined us for the standard Thanksgiving fare of turkey and dressing and all the other required celebratory foods. The grands were going to bed down in the living room and the quilts that are normally stacked on top of the trunk were being pressed into service as pallets and covers. With all that fabric gone, it was easy to move the trunk away from the foot of the bed and reveal its contents, a process I thought should include my son (his sister and her family had already departed for home or she would also have been invited). I have no idea why, but it seemed appropriate at the time. Only after I opened it and found his sports trophies and Charles Barkley posters did he remind me that it once sat at the foot of his bed, and he had often rummaged through the treasures it holds.
And oh, what treasures there are! In the depths of that trunk, hidden from the world, are my great-grandfather’s business cards . . . and tax receipts from 1917 . . . and bank statements dating back to 1919. Neatly rolled and tied with frayed and faded ribbons are their son’s high school diploma issued in 1927 and his diploma from David Lipscomb Junior College that was awarded two years later. My great-grandmother’s second grade teaching license from Garland County, Arkansas dated December 20, 1912 is neatly folded and still in the envelope in which it was mailed. There are hat pins that could pierce the hide of a charging rhino and rolls and rolls of mile-long sashes once worn by my great-grandmother, still vibrantly colored even though the years have rendered them slightly fragile to the touch. Some of those sashes are wrapped around cylinders of newspaper . . . perfect sheets, neatly cut from the September 9, 1936 Commercial Appeal, then tightly rolled to support the fabric they were created to protect. My great-grandfather had died suddenly just five days before and I have to wonder . . . did she take these simple, brightly colored accessories and banish them as she mourned the loss of her husband? Perhaps so, since the register book from his visitation and service were close by, recording the names of those in attendance and holding the cards of condolences she had received.
As we knelt beside the trunk, pulling treasure after treasure from its depths, I paused. Looking down at these connections to my past, I wondered aloud as to what would happen to it all when I was gone . . . and my children are gone . . . when everyone to whom they meant anything was no longer here to care. It was then Joseph uttered his profoundly prophetic words:
“It’ll be garbage.”
*sigh*
He’s right, of course. One day the trunk will probably end up in some antique store somewhere, its contents scattered to the wind. The hat pins and sashes may survive, but everything else will be garbage. My treasures will be someone else’s trash.
But for now, I will gladly be their guardian.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
