February 24, 2013
-
Cleared out loose things from G2 today with
the brothers and parental units. My God,
we still have so much stuff in our house.
From the mountain of things I brought home
with me, these happen to be the most nostalgic.
This terrible-looking clay mug was made by
Mama back in her shopmaking days at TKC.
When Abang found it I looked at my mother
incredulously, thinking: Wow, so THAT is
where my lack of artistic talent comes from.
I now know who to blame for this missing
gene that renders me useless at drawing.
The brass jewellery case always sat on Mama’s
bedside table, for years. You could find everything
in it, despite its small size - except brooches and
rings, funnily enough. The satin pouch always held
her tortoiseshell sunnies too, which she’s had since
the 80s. Both the satin pouch and the brass case
serve as familiar anchors, reminding me of what
I used to see in my parents’ room for so long.
Also, brass babushka Pyramids – they’re stackable and
have glowy hieroglyphs that stretch across each of its
three surfaces. Neither of my parents can remember
purchasing something this tacky, so off it went into
my waiting hands. Its crazy beautiful, really.
Mum’s travelling makeup caboodle is awesome. I can’t
remember a single family holiday we went on without
the presence of this massive thing. I used to pretend
that it was a picnic basket and, if I was lucky enough
to find it unlocked, would eat the shit out of Mum’s
lipsticks. This thing is in amazing condition despite
the wear and tear over the years, including the
neglect it suffered after Mum switched to soft bags.
EE joked about how this would make a great carry
on case for my work trips. I’m pretty sure I’d get a
lot of flack for this but that is such an outrageous
idea, I might just go ahead and do it. Channel a
little bit of that 80s vibe to rejog my fellow flight
mates down memory lane, you know? Get them
going, like, ‘Oh will you look at that – a caboodle!
I haven’t seen one in years! I remember when
we used to have to lug them around back then..’
The little green leather-bound book is a tiny
Easy Japanese pocketbook. Given to Dad by
a man called Kimi (“In Nagoya,” he scribbled
on the first page) in 1968. I know for sure
Dad’s never used this because the pages
are still so crisp and pristine. It’s also got
that yummy old-bookpage smell, which
I absolutely love. Sneaked it out of the
‘TO DONATE’ pile and into my stash.
Happened upon these when cleaning out my old room.
These were all things I received post-Uni, circa end-08.
Cards and letters from my loved ones (Nain and Taid
still couldn’t get my name right after all these years,
and Bubs sent me a stolen Raya card, that criminal),
the Traveling Stomp Drumsticks & Harvard Hatband,
and an excellent mix of what was then the latest Latin
music on Colombia’s Top 40 charts. She enclosed it in
an envelope made out of a horrific blown-up picture
of the three of us (enter Nafsica) in Amsterdam.
Looking at these makes me realise that I really have
forgotten the art of keeping in touch the old fashioned
way. The last time I sent anyone a Care Package was a
couple of years ago, which, when I think about it, sucks.
Time to make some friends happy again through the mail.
Also spirited away from the donation pile are these
two crocheted sweaters that Nain made me for
Christmas one year. I used to hate them, so
much, especially if I was forced to put them on
in restaurants. In my little nine year-old head,
crocheted sweaters were disgusting. Looking at
them now, and remembering how Nain used to
teach me how to knit stuff from a ball of yarn
in her living room on Menai Bridge (I made a
flag once!
), I can’t fathom giving them away.It’s the only physical memory I have of Nain and
Taid; and their cold, cold house on Menai Bridge
with the attic and the trapdoor; and pictures of
my Dad when he was just a sprightly teenage
cadet officer; and lovely breakfasts in Nain’s
wooden kitchen; and of my poor, poor Taid.
I honestly don’t know what I’ll do with most of
these things that I have taken into my care.
But somehow that doesn’t seem to matter.
The content feeling of knowing I’ve salvaged
these memories from our family’s 26 years
at G2 seems to more than make up for any
future sense of despair at having accumulated
so much junk in my own home.
. . . I’m sorry, did I say junk?
I meant treasures, that’s what they are.
