This isn't going to be about self-pity. I hope, anyway!
It's been a hard week, and for the moment I'll put aside everything happening in the world and here in northern Minnesota. I'll even put aside the England thing, per se. It's about the ways in which my family and its early imprint broke my heart, and has left such a confusing legacy, the omnipresent ghost of a life I didn't live.
Two boxes that I have had in storage (for years now) arrived last week, and I finally tackled the bigger of the two early this morning. I think I alluded the other week to the fact that much of the material in it would constitute what little is left of my "WASP" inheritance...I don't think all of it put together is worth much more than the $700 or so my dad left me, and I didn't expect to get emotional over these items, but I did. The little silver picture frames, the monogrammed mirrors and brushes, the tiny gold child's bracelet, my grandmother's clothing from a century ago and a few items of clothing she made for me in the 1950's. My childhood scrapbook, the little beribboned baby cards (presumably sent out with the birth announcements), and then, jumping way ahead, my three college diplomas (!)
I have never really lived the life of an upper crust, blue blood aristocrat, American or British, with the arguable exception of a few years in the late 1960's. But that was the milieu of my upbringing. My father's family had, I think, been hangers on in that world for several generations, but there was absolutely no family money. Dad himself never made any money to speak of; there were a few years of seeming affluence but it all turned out to be an illusion. During much of the 1970's and 80's, after Dad left GE, my parents lived in utter poverty. Eventually, he would essentially live out his golden years on money that had come to my mother and was then supposed to come to us children. Oh well.
As for me, I didn't marry a wealthy young man "of good family" and end up in one of the posh New York suburbs...and putting English church music and my art talent aside, I now understand that I completely didn't believe in our capitalist system and probably could never have thrived or prospered on my own within it. Even if now, by some miracle, I were transported into a lovely cottage of my own with oriental carpets and a grand piano to put the silver picture frames on, I'd be so aware of the inequities of the system that I would rarely enjoy myself. And had I married, I probably would have long since divorced a husband whose life centered on making money. I see that world too clearly, and know that, if nothing else, it is dying.
Still, every minute of every day, there is this upper crust Liz walking around in the body of a nondescript older woman in the upper midwest. The person people see truly isn't all that I am. I think what is the most painful, and perhaps what continues to lead me to dream of England, is the imprint of beauty, and the need for beauty. Beautiful things: fabrics, paintings, silverware, glassware, music, landscape, architecture. No wonder I watch "Antiques Road Trip"!
Another thing struck me though, as I tried to take in all the objects I had unwrapped and placed on my bed. Think of all the people who did everything "right", and yet in the last few years have had homes float away downriver or burn up in fires. And yet here I am, having really never had a permanent home to speak of, having done nothing "right", and yet finally my precious things have caught up with me. I am blessed in so many ways, including having amazing friends!
Some of this stuff is going to find its way to new homes or collectors. Some of it I have unwrapped just enough so it can breathe for a few weeks. Most of it has been boxed up most of my life, so it needs to see the light before I make final decisions. Even though it represents the life I didn't live, and couldn't have created for myself, it is still an important facet of me, and I am glad to be reunited.
