Reading · [B]OLD AGE with Debbie Weil

Welcome to [B]old Age, where I (aka Debbie Weil, turning 75) write about the bittersweetness of old age, from the blessings to the bullshit. Find my revealing Personal Essays and my popular Q&As with [B]old Women; jump into [b]old discussion posts.

This one is as close to giving myself radical permission as I’m comfortable with. I’d love to hear your thoughts below, in the Comments.

Last year my sister dropped off a bright red cardboard box, which she’d found when she was cleaning out the basement of my parents’ house after they died. Inside was a stash of mementos from my childhood that my mother had carefully saved... and never told me about. There was even a copy of my college thesis, on an obscure literary topic that would interest no one, except maybe my biggest fans.

I wouldn’t count my mother among those fans. She was highly judgmental, at times even a bit cruel towards me, a tendency which worsened in the last few years of her life (she died at 92). Still, I loved her very much.

So when I pried open the lid 13 months ago, I was astonished to find she’d saved everything from a doctor’s instructions when I was a newborn, to my baby teeth, to grade school report cards (I was always an excellent student), to letters and postcards I’d written as a child and teenager, and even clippings from my first real job as a newspaper reporter.

The stash of stellar report cards, along with loving letters and postcards I’d written my parents while away at camp, at boarding school, and as a new mother, still hungering for a career as a journalist.

It gave me a shiver, almost bringing me to tears, to see so many memories of my childhood heaped neatly in a cardboard box. My first question was why? Why had she so carefully saved everything? My second, more devastating question: Does this mean she really did love me?

I was an only child for almost a decade before my younger siblings came along; I lacked the happy-go-lucky, outgoing personality that would have pleased my young parents (they were 21 when I was born). Through countless messages, some explicit, some implied, they made it clear: they wanted a different kind of child—an exuberant, entertaining, less needy little girl to show off to their friends.

For my part, I wanted something different, too. Even as an adult I wanted my mother to be more loving, more accepting, and to say out loud, “I love you, Debbie.” (I don’t recall that she ever did.) I longed for her to celebrate me for being a shy, introspective girl who became a writer, a journalist, an author, a podcaster, an essayist, a wife, a mother, a grandmother–even if I didn’t like entertaining and cooking for large crowds of family and friends (something she greatly valued). Even as I grew older, grew less shy, more chatty, more humorous, I could tell I still wasn’t the right kind of person.

Maybe I’m overthinking this. Maybe the answer to why she saved everything is obvious: I was her first-born child, and she was proud of my achievements. But she couldn’t show it, couldn’t talk to me about her feelings (or listen to mine), and maybe that’s the point. All she could do was save report card after report card because they were tangible and lent themselves to her organized and meticulous approach to everything she did. I was to be managed, not openly cherished… and this was her way of doing that.

Still, I’ve been staring at this box for over year. It feels like a message to me from her grave; I just wish I knew exactly what it is.

To my complete surprise, my mother had saved clips of every single weekly column I wrote as a young reporter for the Jonesboro, GA News Daily. My topics: what it was like to be a working mother (our first child was a year-and-a-half), the aftermath of a break-in to our house in Atlanta, then-President Carter’s firing of the outspoken Bella Abzug as co-chairman of his National Advisory Committee on Women, and more.

So herewith, I give you a glimpse inside the box, followed by my questions for you about your own childhood mementos. Maybe together we can come up with some clarifying thoughts about the meaning of cherished keepsakes, as well as what to do with them, especially if they’ve been carefully saved by a parent. I’m counting on you, astute and [b]old readers, to help me out.

What was your first thought, if you’ve come across a stash of childhood things saved by a parent?
Why is it always mothers who save this stuff?
Can you offer any suggestions for what I should do with this box and its contents?

💬 [B]old Women: My mother couldn't say "I love you," but she saved everything... what now?

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