My friend Mark once said to me, âI know you. You won’t leave your old house until they drag you out, feet forward, head banging down the stairs. He was right; at the time, that was my intention. But, as usual, God had other plans.
These plans included moving us to a smaller place without an attic, garage, spare bedroom or cellar in which we could pack our lifelong treasure, the memories, treasures and relics of years well spent raising people. children, bury parents, travel the world, ski, swim, sail, hike, work, play and serve in the US Air Force, with our family of five for four years in Japan ( you should see the woodcuts, wooden chests, scrolls, screens, even a hibachi and a stone lantern we brought back). To do justice to this huge hiding place, we should have a museum.
Instead, we’re playing with the idea of ââa Potlach, like when a successful Kwakiutl Indian gave an opulent feast in which all of his possessions were distributed. But what a sane person would come to our Potlach if they had any idea of ââthe gifts they can expect or the fascination that we, the hosts, can expect from them for the gifts bestowed.
Lyn and I sorted our 6ft wide, 4ft high Japanese teak chest with its top carved in delicate oriental curves upwards. She delicately unfolds the silks and linens it contains and arranges the bronze Hara dancers on her shelf. Each element has its story. She has to say it.