Lately I have noticed I have become increasingly sentimental. I know where it started. My beloved mom passed almost seven years ago, and it’s taken all of that time to start going through her things, and there are many, many things. My sister and I lovingly held onto all of the handmade quilts that she’d made over the years. A second-floor crafts room harbored decades of DIY and sewing projects, all made with loving hands, including several unfinished baby quilts for church members, whose children are likely attending middle school now. They became unable to complete when Caral tunnel reared its evil head. Various restored furniture and antiques are sprinkled about, cared for ever so deeply. Combing through over 80 years of someone’s possessions is a real task. Yes, my mom believed in holding onto things. Some rare, some simple, some deteriorated, many just something loved. She loved holding onto people too.
My father preceded her in death over 25 years ago. Just weeks ago, I found an old box of their love letters, including many beautiful, now vintage photos of his short time in the military – what a gift. Unearthing this level of sacred courtship truly hit me. It is certainly missing in our current culture. They are kept safe in Harmony Linen Letter Boxes from The Container Store.
The penmanship alone is frame-worthy. I felt as though I’d fallen into an invisible well, being this close to their private world. It made me feel guilty, as I trod into an unfamiliar loving space created, nurtured, and protected by someone else, two deeply loving people who happened to be my parents. Their own forbidden territory. These letters were the cornerstones of the life they created, which continued to be carried throughout our home. The language and sentiments which become the fabric of our lives. The feelings of comfort that create the desire for comfortable chairs, a welcome mat inviting friends and strangers to become part of your world. Hot cooked meals, lovingly prepared and shared over deep, meaningful conversations at the dining table. And laughter, much laughter.
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The unseen words that you feel when you walk into someone’s home, that carry throughout generations, begin with a simple act of love, often on paper. Sometimes an embrace, a smile, but always with a feeling. Sentimentality about your environment and things is a special gift. I used to throw things away easily, with a true sense of attachment. I have always been incredibly tidy, to a fault, some might say. Long before I knew ‘minimalism‘ was a word. Only the essentials need occupy a space. No need to have coffee beans on a counter when I only prepare coffee in the morning. You get the idea. Who is with me on this?
(Image credit: Joy Moyler)
Cleaning out my parents’ house changed me. It made me more forgiving of things that occupy space, once belonging to someone else. I see things differently now because I have chosen to hold on to this space, to keep this house, this home for myself. So, I have returned the Chinese bar purchased in the 1970s to its original place in the dining room; my portrait drawn by longtime friend Jose Solis Bentancourt after a water duel occupied wall space in the dining room for 27 years. It was finally given to me after Mom passed but has returned to its original place. The lamp purchased on the North Shore, during one of many of our shopping trips three years before Mom’s passing, too, has returned to its original location.
(Image credit: Joy Moyler)
There’s an old line, of unknown origin, ‘You can never go home again’. Well, that isn’t true at all; you absolutely can. The house sounds different at night. Trees have gotten taller and brush against the windows almost as though they are waving at me. There may very well be a squirrel in the attic, but the smell of food Mom cooked, which I continue to cook, is the same. I can still see Dad tooling about in the yard. Many of his tools remain in the garage. My husband uses them now, which makes me smile and somewhat sad because I wish they’d had the chance to meet. But the house feels the same. My sister asked, ‘Does it feel different cooking in the house now?’ Strangely, it doesn’t because I feel Mom cooking beside me. While making lemonade last week, I distinctly heard her voice clearly say, ‘easy on the sugar, strike a balance’. Have you ever left home to return in a different way? Were you sentimental about it? How did it feel?
‘The unseen words that you feel when you walk into someone’s home, that carry throughout generations, begin with a simple act of love, often on paper. Sometimes an embrace, a smile, but always with a feeling.’
So back to those letters… I have always loved handwritten letters. Sealed with my favorite Artisaire wax stamps, scented with a mist of my signature perfume, Tom Ford ‘Black Orchid. With computers, they fell out of fashion. Yet, I see an increasing number of people returning to letter writing, Aka ‘Snail mail’. This warms my heart greatly. I certainly hope it is more than a trend. One thing for certain: if you write me, I will write you back! Someday, perhaps someone will find my letters, hold them tightly and with love, and become strangely sentimental. Giving way to something totally new, that hopefully always makes them feel like home.
Interior designer Joy Moyler is one of Homes & Gardens’ Editors-At-Large for By Design, where she shares her thoughts on design. See the rest of her articles here.
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