I’m currently watering the seeds of an idea around memory preservation and collective remembrance. It’s something I’ve been pondering for a while now, after it occurred to me that as a society, we’ve come to place more value on our ‘stuff’ than our stories.
“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.”
– Sue Monk Kidd
Growing up, my mum had an ornate wooden chest that sat at the base of her bed. She called it her ‘glory box’ and it was filled with a random assortment of memorabilia that she was saving for my sister and I. Things like an antique knife that she and dad used to cut their wedding cake, a tablecloth with lace edging that her mum had embroidered and a slightly crusty christening gown that had been worn by generations of babies (some of whom clearly had reflux). We spent hours sitting on the end of her bed, listening to the stories of every item in that box. None of which had any real street value … but all precious beyond measure to me.
If memorabilia is defined as ‘things worthy of being remembered’ then it stands to reason that without the memory, the ‘thing’ has no worth. There is no meaning or joy to be found in any of those items alone. It’s the memories they’re infused with and the stories that accompany them (of which I’m now a caretaker), that imbue them with value.
Memories come to life through the magic of stories. They are like the invisible thread between memory and meaning. They help make sense of where we’ve come from, give meaning to who we are and provide clarity around where we are going. Our stories define us. Our stories matter.
If my kids were tasked with the unenviable job of sorting through the mountain of memorabilia I have stashed away, then I doubt that ‘Tom’ the doll after whom I named my son, who bears an uncanny and disturbing resemblance to Chucky (the doll that is), or the yellow rose petal pressed between the pages of a 1977 ballet recital program, or the random piece of yellowed lace that was once a part of my grandma’s veil would make the cut. And nor should they, because without the memory they’re meaningless.
After I lost my own Mum, I inherited a few special things, like her beautiful bone handled cutlery canteen (that I think belonged to her mother before her), her silver Glomesh evening purse, still in its dust cover, a handwritten collection of her favourite recipes and the eternity ring that Dad gave her when I was born. I treasure all these things, but if I could trade them for more of her stories, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
Which leads me to wonder … what a modern version of a glory box might look like and how I might go about the task of editing and curating a collection of precious things each overlayed with a story, and reunited with the memory that lives inside my own heart and head. Maybe I would include the pressed yellow rose and the story about how my parents presented me with a bouquet of yellow roses at the end of my first solo ballet performance and how yellow roses were Mum’s favourite. Or how my grandma gave me a piece of her wedding veil that I sewed into my own as my ‘something old,’ or how I always knew I’d have a son called Tom … whose eyes thankfully face in the same direction (unlike his namesake).
And maybe my kids and their kids will keep adding their own stories to this collection, and over time it will grow into a beautiful library full of love and learning. A new tradition of collective legacy that will bind me to all of the people who will follow me and who I will spend a lifetime waiting to love.
-Ang
Ang Galloway is an Australian storyteller and three-time MEA alum. You can read more of her stories at https://angelagalloway.substack.com