What will you leave behind?

 

This morning I am going to tell you about an auction . . . an auction like no other . . . it's no ordinary auction. In this auction, people are able to bid on unclaimed items which have been left behind in safe-deposit boxes. These are items which have been deemed so important . . . that people have paid good money to have them safeguarded . . . in steel.

Diplomas, children's report cards, letters . . .

You shuffle along, past the coin collections and gold pocket watches . . . past the jewelry to documents and small items, all sealed in plastic bags.

Boy Scout Patches, receipts from a Waikiki hotel, a child's crayon drawing of a bunny rabbit . . .

All unclaimed property, waiting to be auctioned off on the block . . . each one the forgotten or overlooked possessions of owners now passed on . . . 

 

Rosaries, letters, train tickets . . .

Each bag holds a mystery, the clues arousing curiosity, but giving no answers, but a few. In one there are the immigration papers of a man who arrived at Ellis Island, in America back in 1906. Did he discover all the promise that America held for him? Did he find what he was looking for???

Two marbles, a few stones, and a belt buckle . . .

Very curious. Do these things represent special memories of an event or a special person???

Passports, telegrams, newspaper clippings . . .

The yellowed article from a 1959 newspaper reads . . . "Vlahovich's Mother Sobs At Guilty Verdict." Imagine it . . . a mother's son convicted of murder. The mother wept, pleading with the judge involved to spare her son. "Take my blood," she weeps. "Kill me!" You find yourself wondering . . . did she watch her son die in the electric chair???  

 

Undeveloped film, birth certificates, marriage certificates . . .

Mingled here . . . the unofficial business of life along with the official business of life . . . a curling lock of golden hair, a child's corrected paper along with a poem . . . "Grandmother's Attic," typed out on a yellowing sheet of paper, the print now slightly fading . . .

"While up in Grandmother's attic today
In an old red trunk, neatly folded away
Was a billowy dress of soft and gray
Of rose brocade were the panniers wide
With quilted patterns down the side
And way in the back against the wall
Of the little old trunk was an old silk shawl
Silver slippers, a fan from France
An invitation to a dance
Written across the program blue . . .
Was "Agatha dear, may I dance with you?"

It's as if all those at the auction have been given entry into hundred's of Grandmother's attics . . . except these are the attics of hundreds of unknown people. 

 

Diaries, photographs, the ink print of a newborn's feet . . .

In the light of lives now lost, these items speak volumes about life . . . suggesting a sense of finality, the realization that life on earth is limited and will one day come to an end, and at the end . . . material possessions don't come with you . . .

So . . . what will YOU leave behind???

A small metal box filled with mementos speaks volumes about what is valued . . . but that is only a whisper when compared to the legacy of life, itself. Amidst our "he-who-dies-with-the-most-toys" world, perhaps we should dare to leave something a little bit more special . . . 

 

All these pictures here this morning are ones that I took on a visit to Boulogne, in France, about 12 years ago now. (Time flies when you're having fun!) We had gone over there with friends on a day trip. It was summer and the sun was blazing and the company fabulous. In Boulogne we were fascinated by this garden which had been planted . . . only a temporary one . . . created out of cast off vehicles, bicycles and the like . . .

 

I was absolutely fascinated with it . . . this idea that what might have been considered refuse . . . and left discarded to rust in a car dump, could be revitalized and made into something which really was quite, quite beautiful. The perfect epitomy of re-purposing found objects  . . .  You look at each vehicle and wonder about who might have owned it at one time.  What were their lives like, what stories could be told, how many kisses were planted on blushing cheeks in the front seats, how many fields plowed and planted, how many bicycle rides along the canal  . . . what stories lay hidden in the past?

Boulogne is one of my favourite French places to visit. I especially love the area which lies within the walled part, with it's cobbled streets and quaint shops.  I guess  I just love France, especially when you get away from the really large cities.

A thought to carry with you  . . . 

° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
 *Someday I hope to enjoy enough of 

what the world calls success 

so that somebody will ask me, 

"What's the secret of it?" 

I shall simply say this: 

"I get up when I fall down."
~Paul Harvey  •。★★ 。* 。  

 

In the English Kitchen today  . . .  Panfried Sole with Lemon & Thyme.  Deliciously simple!

Have a wonderful Wednesday.  Its just bucketing down here and quite windy, but it will be a bit of a welcome respite from the mugginess of yesterday!  I might crack on with more sorting out. Whatever you get up to today, don't forget  . . . 

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And I do too!