A Stash of One's Own by Clara Parkes

Author:Clara Parkes
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abrams
Published: 2017-04-06T04:00:00+00:00

WHEN IT’S GONE, IT’S GONE

BY CLARA PARKES

Years ago, Roz Chast drew a cartoon about the life cycle of a handknit sweater. I forget the specifics, but it began with a less-than-flattering sweater being gifted by an Aunt Clara at Christmas, which ultimately ended up in a landfill over which grass grew and sheep grazed, starting the cycle all over again. That concept has helped form my personal philosophy of stashing.

I didn’t know about the word stash for decades. As a lone, occasional knitter growing up in 1980s Tucson, Arizona, and then an equally lone, occasional knitter in San Francisco, I had zero awareness of what other knitters were doing. Once I did learn the term stash, I had no idea that it was used in any context other than yarn. My exposure to contraband and rule-breaking consisted primarily of a Rowenta toaster I kept in my dorm room throughout college (strictly forbidden). I invited friends over and we had toast parties. BYOJ (bring your own jam).

But I’ve always had a complicated relationship with “things.” This has threatened my relationship to what stash can be, versus what I know it should be.

My father’s side of the family seems quite well-rounded when it comes to letting go of possessions. But my mother’s family is a different story that can be summed up as follows: My maternal grandma was famous for the saying, “When it’s gone, it’s gone.” She used it often.

“Would the kids like some gingersnaps?” she’d ask.

“Yes!” we’d cheer.

“Just remember,” she’d say as she handed us the plate, “when they’re gone, they’re gone.”

She wasn’t being Zen about it; she wasn’t urging us to live in the moment and celebrate what we had in the here and now. She spoke like a specter from a Dickens story, the Ghost of Cookies Past, issuing a warning of the profound deprivation and regret that awaited us if we dared use something up. When it’s gone, it’s gone.

After both my grandparents died, we discovered a freezer in the garage. They’d been out of that house for five years and living in a continuing care community down the road, but the freezer was still plugged in and humming. Inside, we found a fifty-year-old tin of fruitcake, ancient bags of fiddlehead ferns, and trays of perfectly preserved Swedish meatballs from when my mom was in college. Rumor had it a piece of my parents’ wedding cake lurked somewhere near the bottom—and they’d been divorced for almost twenty years.

That house, and their apartment down the road, were both packed full. Not with junk, and not to the point of being a public health hazard. They were crammed full of supplies, like a boat packed for a long journey, with extra toys and provisions tucked in every nook and cranny. There were books and records and photographs galore. There were plastic cups from long-ago flights on defunct airlines, all stacked neatly on the kitchen shelf with a note: “Careful not to give to people who crunch cups.” There was

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