By Lauren Green
In my attic, three cases of glass jars sit on the top shelf of my daughter’s old dollhouse. Several years ago, I went through a home-canning phase. Peach preserves were heavy in my rotation, followed closely by raspberry-jalapeno. If you were in my social/familial orbit during that season of my life, chances are, you were gifted a jar of gelatinous homemade goodness at one time or another. Colorful, tasty and easily mass-produced, I thought they were the perfect gift. That is, until my brother informed me that while cleaning my grandmother’s home after she died, he discovered a pyramid of my preserves, dusty and unopened, in the back of her pantry. If my own Granny Webb didn’t eat my fruity specialty, I began to wonder, did anyone? Naturally, my canning confidence wavered, and after a time, all stovetop production came to a halt.
It’s been years since I’ve canned anything in those glass jars; even longer since my daughter played with that dollhouse-now-shelf. Even so, both are sitting on valuable real estate in my attic, a space that is steadily reaching a milestone I thought I’d never see: full capacity. Early in our marriage, my husband and both our then-small children moved around quite a bit; four cross-country job relocations in nearly eight years. At that stage in life, with all of us so young and far from extended family, newness was the norm. Consequently, I mastered new job titles at breakneck speed. Playdate Planner in Houston, Backpack Supply Chain Director in Illinois, and Spiritual Director in the sparse California desert. But there was one title I quickly dropped: Pack Rat. To be certain, there would be no overstuffed attic on my watch!
As a kid, though, I couldn’t get enough of cluttered catch-all spaces. I played in plenty of attics, garages, closets and even barns back in the day. A standout was my grandparents’ basement. It was kind of spooky, smelled faintly of mildew and housed all sorts of oddities. There, my brother and I played among artifacts such as three Magi made out of Aunt Jemima syrup jars, complete with clay-molded hands holding plastic renditions of gold, frankincense and myrrh. Shelves stacked with fragile handwritten ledgers listing transactions from my great-great-grandfather’s country store. And random clothes galore, including a green velvet riding jacket worn by some long-grown toddler. The backdrop to it all was a towering shelf of canning jars vacuum-filled with a rotating collection of fruits and vegetables. My grandparents were unapologetic pack rats, which made for a great childhood for me. However, when I started sending out change-of-address cards every other year for nearly a decade, I latched onto minimalism pretty quickly as an adult.
Over time, inevitably, things changed. Today, my attic could use a thorough purging. Or perhaps it’s time for a move? With kids grown and retirement on the horizon, it makes sense. Even so, I’m not convinced. For one, since we are no longer burdened by school and work constraints, my husband and I are traveling more, and DFW Airport is oh-so-convenient to our house. Then there are the neighbors; our chosen family. Many of them have walked alongside us through twenty years of life milestones, and as a result, our roots are embedded deep in our surrounding village. Mostly, though, in a short span of time, we’ve lost parents, launched children and wrapped up careers; our house is the one thing that feels stable.
But that doesn’t mean we want to be tethered to it. My husband and I are about to embark on a trip to walk the Camino de Santiago in Spain. I am grateful we have the time and resources for such a trip, but I’m also a little nervous about whether or not I will have the physical stamina to complete our journey. Mostly, though, I am curious about how I’m going to live out of a backpack for three weeks. But what an opportunity to sharpen my old minimalist chops! The fact that I still own 36 canning jars and a twenty-year-old dollhouse is a case in point that my load has increased over the years. Evidently, I could use some practice in holding things loosely; my stuff, my plans, and my grip on it all. As such, upon my return, I suspect I’ll be ready for some serious summer purging. First to go will be those jars. Luckily, peach season is just around the corner here in Texas. Anyone interested in some delicious preserves?
Lauren Green and her expanded family of now six have called Southlake home for over nineteen years. She’s not kidding about that attic overhaul. For a jar of preserves, you can reach her at [email protected] while supplies last.