Keepsakes We Never Intended to Keep
Inside every house are keepsakes that no one ever intended to keep. If you stop to think about it, I’m sure you could think of your own. These keepsakes exist mostly outside of our consciousness because they have been around so long we don’t even question their presence. I recently had a moment of clarity where I saw one of these keepsakes for exactly what it is — a one-time use creation that has outlived its lifespan… by decades. This is its story.
The entryway closet at my parents’ house is basically the junk drawer of closets. If something doesn’t have a designated place, it may likely find its way into the closet — the designated place for things without designated places which are too big for the drawer that holds smaller things that don’t have designated places. Still with me?
In that closet, perched in front of a disorganized array of light bulbs, paper gift sacks awaiting the day they will be re-gifted, and cleaning supplies (among other things), sits a dull blue container. The lid, while still partly attached on the back, doesn’t close all the way and the thin side walls are permanently bent and disfigured. On the front is a puke-yellow sticker with no picture of a baby, no cute design, no phrase about the quality of the original product inside, just big red letters that read “Western Family” above big blue letters that read “Baby Wipes.” No elegance. No style. Purely functional, as an off-brand product should be.
Originally inside the container were 80 baby wipes. How long do 80 baby wipes last? I guess that depends on how many babies they are required to clean up after and how much said babies eat. But surely, on the ordinary day my mother bought those wipes, there was no moment when she looked down into the grocery cart and thought about how long that container would be part of her life. Those wipes were going to wipe away poop and sticky hands for a few weeks or so, and that was as far as she had thought. Because in ordinary moments, we don’t imagine the specifics of the future. Our thoughts about the future are more general than we care to admit.
But the stars must have aligned the day the final wipe was stained brown and wrapped tightly in a diaper. A need arose. A container presented itself.
I like to imagine that the container knew something special was happening. It expected it would be useful for a short time before being buried in the trash. At the store, it heard rumors of containers that got “called up,” delaying their inevitable fate. But those were just rumors made up by lucky water bottles that had been purchased, taken into the real world, and refilled — returning arrogantly to tell their tales from the bags of customers passing by.
My most vivid memory of the wipes container was when Mom accidentally buzzed a line up through my bangs and had to buzz my whole head. I cried a little until I realized I could lie about how it happened. I made up a cool story about burning my hair off while making a volcano with gasoline in the backyard. That’s a story for another day.
For years, the blue container was where Mom kept all her haircutting supplies: hair clippers, scissors, combs, and a small can of oil for the clippers. Every month or so, Mom would whip out the wipes container, throw a towel around my back, and give me a trim on a barstool (until I grew enough to graduate to a dining room chair). Though the ritual wasn’t without protest after “the incident.”
I don’t remember exactly when the contents changed. As for why, Mom eventually bought a nicer pair of clippers, complete with their own storage bag, so she no longer needed the services of the wipes container. You’d think that would have been the end of the line for the flimsy blue container. Oh, you’d think.
The wipes container’s new calling was to store all our playing cards. And I mean ALL our cards, incomplete decks included. Of course, no one remembers which decks are complete, so every game night begins with a few minutes of counting cards. But no one really questions it because that’s how it’s always been. You don’t ask why the decades-old broken wipes container with a lid that doesn’t shut all the way has multiple incomplete decks of cards in it. That’s just how it is. Apparently, without the hope of one day miraculously finding the lost cards to complete a $1 deck, there’s not much else to live for.
You could probably squeeze as many stories out of the blue wipes container as you could any other keepsake or memento (intended or otherwise) in my parents’ house. That cheap piece of plastic has touched the lives of everyone in my family in different ways. Next time you’re waiting in line at the store, look closely at the contents of your cart. Of course, it’s not likely any of the items will reach such significance. But it’s also not impossible.
And it’s in slim possibilities that we can find wonder and meaning that add color and vibrance to our lives—now and in the future.
