Thinking Outside The Boxes

When I arrived in Sacramento, after the movers dropped the very last item into the stacked maze they designed, I felt undaunted. I appreciate that a looming, un-packing process normally does not provoke such fearless anticipation but, for me, it was redemption.

For the past years I had lived with my father (Long Day's Journey Into Night) in San Francisco (A Tale Of A City: San Francisco and Its "Lost" Child). I lived in a dark room with a minimal amount of décor. And everything I owned, a lifetime of possessions and memories, insignificantly sat in boxes in a damp, dark garage. Initially I had envisioned my stay and this storage as an interim situation but as the years crept on, I would find myself looking at the heap of now dusty brown containers and seeing them with growing anonymity. I found it best to resign myself to a possibility that I might never enjoy the sealed contents of each. I wondered if it would be better to either give them away or, yes, just throw them out. It is very sobering and soul stopping to separate yourself from the collections of your life. You actually find yourself wondering if there is worthwhile meaning to anything at all.

But moving to Sacramento gave me a second chance. I found myself standing in my new place, surrounded by a labyrinth of cardboard.  It was like a cacophony of lost Christmas or birthday presents screaming to be unwrapped. And, as I slit open the faded strips of masking tape, the significance and the memories leaped  out.

At this point, I should mention that I am a collector… Eiffel towers of all sizes, antique Imari dishes, Murano paperweights, old books and prints, and more plates and pitchers anyone could possibly use in a lifetime. The list goes on as did the collecting--over years, over travels, over homes, over special moments.  I remember once visiting a friend who had recently redecorated her home. It was beautifully appointed, bursting with fabulous examples of Majolica, Baccarat, etc., etc.. I asked her where she was when she obtained this pitcher or that painting and she finally said, "My decorator bought them".  I was so surprised that she did not have a story, an adventure, a person behind each piece.

So, as I opened my self-appointed collection, I would drift to images and thoughts of the people, places and personal memories each represented. 

• ·       The Chinese vase my Mother gave me that once belonged to her great, great Grandmother. “I know you collect blue and white and I wanted you to have it” I was stunned!
• ·       The framed print of Tuscan doors that I saw in a window in Siena and which I flirted my way into purchasing when the shopkeeper told me it was not for sale.
• ·       The large Imari plate, circa 18^th century, that I negotiated with my soon to be husband. “I really want this but I know it’s too expensive. I know we should be saving to buy a house. So I’ll make you a deal. No honeymoon. All I want is the plate.” I got the Imari.
• ·       The antique English desk and dining room table that were anniversary gifts.
• ·       A collection of French santons that I bought when I visited Provence by myself. My husband refused to go. Within a year we were divorced.
• ·       An overstuffed chair from that apartment on Russian Hill in San Francisco. As I mentioned in a past blog I wanted to live on Green Street. I ended up around the corner and not in a mansion but I made to the top of the hill!

Even the most inconspicuous of pieces had personal significance.  I came upon a wicker basket. It was simple but the story it told was not. I was in college. A girlfriend and I took a quarter off to travel to Europe on $25.00 a day. One of the countries we visited was Greece which included the island of Crete. Back in the 70s, the Greek islands were still very primitive. We showered under a faucet, used out-houses, and, when not riding mules, we took exhaust bellowing busses that seemed to barely hang off the hair pin turns of the hills they climbed. I bought the basket from a vendor in a marketplace. After Crete, we returned to Athens and, to our surprise and fear, got caught up in a barrage of gunshots and tear gas. We were in the middle of a revolution! We needed to get out of the country!  I can still see us at the airport running to catch one of the last Olympic Airlines flights to London. As we bolted through the gate and sat waiting in our seats (tensely unsure if they would let the plane take off), I can still see me clutching the basket. I was not leaving Greece, coup d’etat or not, without it.

As the years went by, the basket accompanied though my apartments, hung in place in the family room while my daughters watched television and grew from Mr. Rogers to MTV, sat in the guest room of my home in the Oakland hills. And, in this move to Sacramento, it followed me again…as if to say, it is going to be all right.

During the unpacking, there were also the inevitable moments of moving chaos. Here are some:

• ·       I kept misplacing my glasses and my dog. At one point, Baci (A Dog Named Baci) was literally lost. He left the confusion of the stacks and walked out and down the middle of the street. A frantic search ensued. I was envisioning posters and a reward. Thankfully, a neighbor found him and I learned not to become so focused that my dog becomes missing.
• ·       I would find a broken antique plate or vase. In the past, when everything was on museum-like display, a broken artifact would have thrown me into a state of despair. But I surprised myself as I assessed the damage, got out the super glue (knowing the value would diminish), or simply threw, yes threw, the piece away. Sometimes you must compromise or just let go. And it is silly that an adult owns 30 alabaster eggs. Growth can come in the most unexpected of ways!
• ·       I never found my stainless cutlery so I ended up at Target to purchase one of their boxed sets.  I never knew these came with a soup ladel and cake server! A far cry from my Gumps registry days!

Within a week I was done. I appreciate that it sounds scarily obsessive but I was a woman on a mission. As I opened each box, I grew more and more excited to discover the treasure. And I became immersed in my relentless desire to create what I knew would be my “home”.

And of course, I sent the obligatory, final décor photos to friends. I wanted them to recognize me once again. When my daughter saw these pictures, she complimented but could not help but remark, “It looks like every place else you ever lived, only smaller. It always looks the same.” Another person would have taken this as a fall from grander surroundings or a propensity to be set in one ways. Or both. Not I. Not anymore. I laughed and responded, “Of course. Everything just fell into place, I am back.”

In what is essentially my new living room “corner” (yes, everything is now a vignette of diminished space), are two paintings. One is of San Francisco. The city that I once loved and will, in many ways, always consider my “home”. The second painting is of New York.  The city that will always be my “magical” home. (More on NYC in a future blog). And on that Russian Hill overstuffed chair sits a cushion embroidered with the Tower Bridge and the words “SACRAMENTO”.  A city that has offered me a second chance as well as the ability to reclaim what represents my soul.

Ultimately, I know it will be up to me to make a connection with Sacramento. (The Good, The Bad, And The Uncertain) But for now, as I begin, I do have a place that is me. And that is a great start!!!!