Ancestry Magazine

Take a look into some cherished family heirlooms.

Pulling out my mom’s linen table-cloth for a recent party triggered memories of long-ago Sunday dinners with family and friends gathered around the table telling stories about the past.

Caught up in a bit of nostalgia as we readied the table for the party, I asked each of my daughters to tell me about something she had inherited that held special meaning.

Juliana’s treasure is a watch, given to her by my husband’s mother, that conjures loving memories and stories her grandmother told about growing up in Cleveland. For Diana, touching the policeman’s badge that belonged to her ancestor stirs her imagination about the man who chased and caught a murderer in the dark streets of Brooklyn in 1863. Tricia treasures an American flag dated 1894, embroidered by her great-grandmother. As she teaches her daughter to embroider, she wonders about the woman whose fingers worked the thread on this heirloom cherished through five generations.

My mother’s engagement ring that Laura inherited carries with it the bittersweet story of harsh times. Widowed with six children, my mother was forced to pawn the ring as a means of paycheck-to-paycheck survival until her sister (who raised me) finally bought it back, restoring the ring’s and my mother’s dignity. My own favorite keepsake is the well-worn prayer book that belonged to my second dad—the uncle who raised me. It speaks clearly of the man who inspired me most.

I couldn’t resist asking the friends in the office about their “attic treasures.” Jennifer Utley’s great-grandmother gave her a piano built in the 1890s with complete confidence that Jennifer would play church music on it. Suzanne Russo Adams was the beneficiary of her great-aunt’s cedar chest, filled with photographs and other family mementos.

It’s the Purple Heart earned by his grandfather in World War II that Rob Davis hopes to hand to his children. For Matthew Rayback, books given to him by his father are what he most wants to pass to his children. A memory box holding two tiny gold rings and bonnets, one belonging to Tana Pedersen Lord’s grandmother, the other to her grandmother’s twin sister who died in infancy, that Tana wishes to inherit. Michael Sherrod appreciates most the sentimental value of his grandmother’s intricate lace work and the tiny notebook accounts of her tragic life.

Cherished-but-lost souvenirs include Andre Brummer’s grandfather’s trumpet from World War I, and three glass bottles—fused together in the fires fo llowing the 1906 San Francisco earthquake—that once belonged to the great-grandmother of Anastasia Sutherland Tyler (see “Home Sources away from Home,” page 24, for details). Jeanie Croasmun can only wish her family had saved things, but instead, like those on my father’s side of the family, cleaned house, not wishing to relive the past.

Mark Vermeulen so cherishes the memories of churning buttermilk with his grandmother that he once offered to buy the churn from her. Instead, she gave it to him. Today, Mark uses the churn to display family recipes—each one handwritten by his grandmother.

“These treasures have the special ability to create awe, wonder, and reverence for the past,” says Matt Wright, who inherited a double-sided shaver from his great-grandfather. It’s a link to a man he admires, he says, made more meaningful by the fact that his grandfather used it every day.

So, is the past really over?

Sometimes a memory is all we have in our personal attics; other times, however, we have more—mementos and items we can hold. When we can touch a memory, even the humblest object has a certain power to transport us back in time to the person who once owned it. And each memory triggered by an object in the attic proves that the past is not over, but, inside each of us, very much alive.