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Whether it's the classic Radio Flyer, which is actually red, or a Little Tikes plastic rendition, the little red wagon is part of many children's toddling lives. We seem to have an instinct for pulling our possessions along behind us.
Our favourite toys, Barbie dolls, stuffed animals – and even willing family pets – have all ridden majestically in keepsake caravans because having what we cherish close by is some kind of universal human need.
It was easier to fit our treasures in a wagon once, but as we grew older our portable trophies proliferated as the pile of things we cared about grew. In some cases, they included actual heavy trophies: First Place in middle-school track and field, or badminton, or bowling; MVP in one thing or another. Our accomplishments, in physical form, were displayed in our bedrooms – proof of our earnest efforts. Later, high school yearbooks archived our rites of passage and kept our memories intact.
Inevitably, our parents became the custodians of these childhood treasures when we left home to acquire even more meaningful things. We were thrilled when we added these new things to our wagons, but now we are burdened by their sheer weight. Each move we make challenges us to choose what is important to take, going forward. What really means something in the grand scheme of things? What should be let go?
Some of us, in our middle age, have become the archivists for not only our immediate family, but for the generational family before us – Grandma's china, Dad's books, Mom's teaspoon collection. The decisions and the "things" are heavy.
As I sift through the detritus at the end of my married life, deciding what I will keep, what he will have, whose lineage is at stake, what a stranger might like, what someone might buy, what is no longer useful to anyone and destined for the recycling depot or the curb, I feel as if my wagon is getting lighter against my will. I am excavating a personal archeological site with my bare hands. Strangely, the more I sift the bigger things get: The dining-room set and living-room suite loom in the distance.
I guess moving on is a necessary step for growth and survival. But as cathartic as the self-help literature promises it will be, the process also proves claustrophobic, like being locked in a closet in the basement packed to the gunwales with forgotten things in poorly labelled boxes. Moving on has a dark and disorienting starting point.
The right moment for getting on with the monumental task at hand came unexpectedly for me, in the way a sudden thunderstorm overtakes a lazy lakeside day. I found myself scrambling to gather what mattered most and protect it from a distant destructive force.
At first, I slowly picked through drawers and foraged through closets, unearthing treasures that had lost their status in the wagon of our life. These tentative steps to moving on reminded me of days gone by, when the kids were in school and the rain outside on a June afternoon made cleaning out a kitchen cupboard a delicious little job with its own rewards.
As the weeks zipped by and moving day loomed, the dismantling of our family life became more like a job in a factory where things were, oddly, taken apart.
An insignificant item would rise out of the mounds of memories and set off a geyser of emotion in me: a kindergarten report card, a participant ribbon, a Mother’s Day gift made in a mandatory art class – so sweet and sincere, as though the idea was spur-of-the-moment and completely original.
There are snippets and clippings and snapshots of milestone moments, stacked in boxes and tucked into books. I dare not donate even a shoebox of unknown things without first poring over every detail to separate the meaningful wheat from the cluttered chaff. All this has made moving on a difficult, lonely trek.
It’s hot now; the summer days drag on, with more daylight than I have the stamina to use. I crawl through the things in the cool basement. Christmas decorations seem like artifacts from a distant season. There are enough lights and cords to decorate a large suburban family home – too much for a small condo in the city with no yard for the twinkling lights. How do you give away wreaths and prelit pine trees in the 90-degree summer days?
Downsizing is a problem for many in this First World in which we live. It’s a task that comes home to roost in different ways. Death. Divorce Disease. There are lots of reasons for changing our living arrangements throughout our lives.
I don’t know why I had a solid picture in mind of a big home that our children and their children would come to for family celebrations. I guess movies may have had some influence.
My plans were changed for me, and now I’m changing with them. I am piling a few things into my little red wagon to come along with me, into my new life.
Charlotte Phillips lives in White Rock, B.C.