My dad passed away almost six years ago….and yet it was just a few months ago that I found myself being able to go through the boxes of his memorabilia and knickknacks that had been stored for so long in the recesses of my parents’ hall closet.
My aunt and uncle basically unearthed all of this when my mom had to move out and in to a memory care home. Unearthed. Excavated. Whatever the most appropriate term for it may be. I know they were shocked at how much had been crammed into every square inch of that tiny 1 bedroom apartment in Santa Monica, and I am forever grateful to them for taking on that endeavor.
I don’t know that I could have done it with as much grace.
I picked up the boxes when I went back to LA for the holidays and then promptly placed them unopened in my garage when I returned home. I knew it would take a lot of mental fortitude to go through so much and I wasn’t ready for it. The holidays in LA had opened up another slew of difficult emotions and I simply wasn’t ready for more.
It took until just before Spring for me to make the decision that I needed to see what was in the boxes. I already knew what some of it would be….the rest was a mystery. I had my kids help me. I wanted them to see and hold those pieces of their history.
My dad would have liked that.
We sat on the dining room floor and went through everything one by one. The old photo albums that he had shown me as a little girl, and that I had practically memorized as I grew up. Old family photos. Hungarian history on paper. His journals written in that perfect, sharp writing he maintained until the day he died. His memoirs half in English and half in Hungarian. Books, newspapers, and old magazine clippings. A collection of old coins and even older stamps. Envelopes full of a large collection of random photos of him when he was a young man….his early days in the US. He looked so young, healthy, and tanned.
He loved his life in what was then the glory days of LA. His heart would be heavy to see it as it is now.
I loved seeing those old photos of him. Something of a Hungarian heartthrob. Always with a group of friends or some Patty Duke-esque hottie at his side. A cold beer in hand. A smile on his face. I think those were some of the only years of true happiness he ever had in his life if I can be very honest. I’m glad he had them.
Then came the boxes of family heirlooms. I was not really prepared for these and I still don’t quite know what to do with them. They belong in a museum. I know this much. For those who don’t already know my history….my dad is a direct descendant of St. Stephen the first Catholic King of Hungary. Our family tree is steeped in European royalty and nobility.
I am the keeper of the last of the salvaged treasures from this family tree…treasures salvaged by his parents’ loyal maids and butlers when the Russian troops rolled onto their estate and destroyed everything. I was holding in my hands these heirlooms, many centuries old, that had been buried by the house staff so as to not allow the Russian soldiers from stealing and destroying them.
I also have all of the military honors and medals bestowed to my grandfather and great uncle….and perhaps other relatives much older.
….and in a small silver container there are ashes. I don’t know who of. It took me a minute to be comfortable with that.
Maybe I’m still not.
In that moment sitting on the floor with my kids looking at our history and my dad’s legacy laid out before us I felt the strangest sensation of immeasurable pride and the deepest of sorrow. So much of what was in those boxes, my lap, my kids’ hands…..I knew nothing about. I felt such a need to reach out to him. To ask him, “Apa, tell me the story behind this. Who did this belong to. What does this say? Tell me the significance of this?”…..and the knowing that I would never be able to ask him or hear his responses left me lost.
My kids and I packed everything back up with the greatest of care. They know someday they will be the keeper of these treasures. They too will not know what so much of it was, is, or the significance of it all. They will know it was important….is important.
I don’t think I would’ve ever been prepared to go through all of those items….but I’m glad I did. I don’t know if I will be able to do so again….although I’d love to share them with a historian. Maybe someone who can help me put the puzzle pieces together that I so desperately wish my dad could have done with me.
I sit here writing this with the realization that I knew so much about my dad and our family history….and yet there was so much more left to know. I think he fully intended to tell me and show me. Those boxes were just shoved too far back in the closet, and he was never really allowed too much time on his own (this is a story for another day). I think also, like so many of us complicated human creatures that we are, he did not realize that his days were so numbered. I didn’t either. I guess we always thought there would be another weekend spent together.
So…where am I going with this? Not sure, really. Maybe this is just a reminder to all of us on how important it is to tell your stories. Share them with your loved ones. Talk about your history. Your wins and your losses. Tell someone. Tell everyone.
….and, in my case, learn Hungarian.
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