Apologies for being a bit quiet on here as of late. We are finally back in Los Angeles after a long stretch of the summer spent in the Midwest. There were some wonderful highs — sleepaway camp in Wisconsin was such a win for our boys — and some real challenges as I cleaned out my childhood house in suburban Chicago.
I wasn’t online as much as usual these last few weeks, given the task at hand. But when I did pop back onto social media, my algorithm favored the “Kinda Chic” trend. Have you seen it? Gorgeous pictures with oversize text declaring things that the person deemed “kinda chic.”
I have come to love the concept and the reminders held within the missives, but it took me a minute to embrace the “chic” of it all. My days have been spent reaching into the depths of my childhood home (think: damp basement, dusty attic).
Extremely, objectively not chic.
Much of what we found was stored by my mom, who passed away in 2004. My dad, despite his many strengths, was not a man to get rid of anything or even move it around. Since his death, my sisters and I have been hard at work sorting the treasures from the trash. I thought about doing a tongue-in-cheek post, leaning into the humor amidst the heaviness — As in: Dumpster in the driveway? Kinda chic, LOL.
This was not my first visit (or dumpster), nor will it be the last. Unraveling these spaces is an emotional minefield. I feel my grief widening. The death of both my parents is profound. I can’t help but feel like it is the death of my family of origin? I am very lucky to be extremely close to both my sisters; we are united in the task at hand. Still, there is no denying the shift in our family structure.
The prolonged time at home prompted the most existential of spirals on the matter of STUFF. What does a person — nay, a family — accumulate in a lifetime? Memories in the form of tangible items are a beautiful thing, but how do you begin to choose what to keep and what to toss?
Thinking in earnest about what I want to ship to California, themes began to emerge. (The geographic distance is a useful forcing mechanism, to be quite honest.) As my pile took shape, I realized a lot of it was…kinda chic?
To be sure, chic is a tricky word. The definition involves something stylish or fashionable. Below, in true So Many Thoughts spirit, there is an intentionality in my choices and a visual component that are key, and I think fulfill the “chic” of it all. This reframe has been immensely helpful, inviting reflection on what this stuff symbolizes from my childhood and what it tells me about how I want to show up with my own children.
What do you find kinda chic? Let me know in the comments.
My father loved to collect all kinds of things, from pocket change to golf clubs. His most treasured possessions, however, were antiques. He would peruse the crowded aisles of stores around the midwest for fountain pens, pocket watches, and anything to do with Abraham Lincoln. I rolled my eyes for years at all these “old things.” Now, I have a much greater appreciation for their stories — and a deep gratitude for the reminders they offer of my dad. I’m also wondering what small treasures I can begin to gather…(Does royal memorabilia count? 🙃)
I’m not certain when my mom learned calligraphy, but her signature penmanship worked its way into all corners of our lives. She raised her hand for school and church projects, including invitations and diplomas, but seeing her script delights me most in more mundane spots, like my fifth grade homework folder. It is a physical reminder of the ways in which she made the ordinary feel so special. I have always wanted to learn calligraphy. This is a little nudge to myself to give it a go. (Bonus: It’s very Meghan, don’t you think?)
My mom compiled loads of photo albums, many of them oversize — flipping through their massive pages is one of my favorite things to do. AND YET, in a basement closet, I found a smaller one I had not seen before. The slender green portfolio is from around the time of my parents’ college graduation. It’s far more curated, each image a gem. It made me want to edit down my own endless stream of digital shots, print some out, and make smaller physical albums. (I love a photo book as much as the next person, but something about these individual shots — which offer flexibility for dividing them up some day or framing one — really speaks to me.)
The art of letter writing feels increasingly lost. I came across a binder of notes from my high school boyfriends; it’s hard to imagine any of that happening today. There was another one I filled with printed-out emails (really…!). But the correspondence I treasure are the hand-written notes between me and my family. My sisters, my parents, my grandparents — I have letters from them all. We also came across letters my parents wrote to one another; my heart could hardly handle it. Here is a reminder to me, and to you, to write more letters to the people you love. They will last much longer than a text.
There are all kinds of trend pieces on how millennials don’t want any of their parents’ stuff. I have long placed myself in that camp and still (mostly) do. And yet, when faced with the very real task of dismantling our family home, I see some pieces in a new light. It’s a privilege to cherry pick what would work for me and my house, one that I am embracing wholeheartedly. There is a small shelf from my grandparents’ house that I would love to put in our living room, a full-sized antique bed that would be perfect for Bird, and a spindle chair that would work so well in the corner of my dining room. I find it very soothing to make space in my mind, and my home, for these gems.
For the first three decades of my life, I had a staunch “no nicknames” policy. The myriad abbreviations my name offers turned me off entirely. I insisted on ELIZABETH, adding “all nine letters” just to prove my point. Now, with three kids of my own — and a slew of totally organic, filled-with-love nicknames for each — I have a new appreciation for them. Among all the wonderful mementos we are finding in my dad’s house, pieces emblazoned with a nickname are extra special. There is a college blanket for my dad that reads “PeterMoose” (long story) and all kinds of keepsakes from my mom’s father, whom we affectionately called “DSLOG,” short for “Dear Sweet Lovable Old Grandpa.” I came across this t-shirt he had airbrushed for my 11th birthday; it brings me such joy. Now I am brainstorming ways to put my children’s monikers on things they would like…
These silver linings, in the midst of so much adulting, are keeping me going. What do you find kinda chic? Let me know in the comments. 💫
PS: Thank you again for your patience through my grief. Lots more to come from me on the royal front soon.
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