At some point during the trip, while we were wandering along the Upper West Side, we came upon an interior design store called Gracious Home. Seeing as my mother practiced interior design for several years, it only made sense for the three of us to venture inside. I don't really remember much about the store wares themselves nor do I remember all that we looked at and admired in the store during that visit. More than anything I have a very clear memory of Mom recognizing a local newscaster, pointing her out to me, and then me, unabashedly staring at her from across an isle - simultaneously star struck and in amazed awe of the amount of make up caked all over her face - until she eventually paid for her products and left.
We couldn't have spent more than thirty minutes in that store that day. However, when I moved to New York in 2005 and was setting up my apartment, Gracious Home on the Upper West Side was the store I trekked to for supplies. Sure, there were plenty of other viable shopping options that were actually much closer to my apartment but I didn't care. When I made that initial visit into Gracious Home as a little girl I decided right then and there that when I lived in New York City, that's where I would do my home goods shopping. And I have found that the promises we make to ourselves when were are young are the ones we should all work the hardest to keep.
One fall day, shortly after my move to the city and before I'd found a job that required my 9 to 5 presence, I hopped on the subway with a Gracious Home trip planned, intent on buying myself a proper shower caddy. I had never had one before, having either relied on the plastic carry-all buckets from my college days, or later, in the first few apartments where I'd lived with roommates, designated "sections" of the shower or tub to store our own private stock of various shampoos, conditioners, and face wash, to be shared or "borrowed" under penalty of death.
So. There I was, virtually alone in the biggest city in America; not sure where or when I'd find a job and/or if my recent move was the best or worst decision I'd ever made in my life. (For the record - one of the best.) My move to New York had made me feel very much like a grown up adult while simultaneously making me feel like a lost and confused teenager. I didn't feel like I was really sure of anything that fall, but damn it, I was determined to have an organized, grown up, New York City bathroom. And as everyone knows, all organized, grown up, New York bathrooms have proper shower caddies.
I absolutely overpaid, shelling out nearly $30 for the thing, but I didn't care. I finally had my proper stainless steel caddy from my beloved Manhattan interior design store and that was what mattered. In some bizarre way that stupid metal shower caddy made me happier and prouder than almost anything else I purchased during those initial days of unpacking and settling into my new home. Odd as it sounds, the caddy was the thing that somehow made it feel like I'd arrived, like I was claiming this New York adventure for my own.
When I moved out of New York and back to Boston, that shower caddy came with me obviously. It moved with me through three more apartments and hung in three different bathrooms before settling in my current shower almost six years ago.
For at least a year now, I've thought to myself almost every morning while in the shower, that it was time for a new one. Nothing lasts forever, not even stainless steel, and my New York caddy was well past its prime. It was rusting, the soap dish was caked with old remnants of long since discarded bars, and it no longer hung properly, forcing me to push it back up atop the shower head every other day. Yet even as I knew it was time for a replacement, I held out, not wanting to toss the very thing that - no matter how silly it all seemed - had brought me such a sense of pride and peace during those initial tumultuous months alone in New York.
Last week, I finally bought a new caddy. My Gracious Home one went in the recycling bin. My new shower caddy is nothing special, I think I paid about $12 for it at TJ Maxx. I bought it at a strip mall while I was running errands, I debated between the one I ultimately took home and the other contender for maybe ten minutes. It is rust free, it hangs right where it should, it holds all of my shower necessities adequately. This new shower caddy does everything it is supposed to do. And yet it doesn't mean very much to me at all.
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In April, after years of searching for just the right one, I purchased a new sofa. It has yet to be delivered, it is likely that it will arrive in the next week or so. And it's beautiful. Soft, comfortable, the perfect color grey. I even splurged and add the sleeper noption, so I'll soon have a more enticing spot for overnight guests to crash rather than just offering my current couch (no fold-out option). I fell in love with this soon to be mine sofa in the store, I have no doubt I'll love it once it is in my living room.
When this new grown-up, brand new, not a hand me down sofa arrives though, it will mean donating my current sofa to a local charity. And my current sofa has been around since my mother purchased it for herself when she was twenty five years old. It's been recovered three times, has moved from Georgia to Florida to Missouri to Ohio to New Jersey back to Georgia up to Massachusetts down to New York and finally back to Massachusetts in its forty some odd years. Similarly to my determination to shop at Gracious Home when I was just a kid, around the age of twelve or thirteen, I told my Mom I'd like to have her sofa someday when I had my own apartment. She obliged and that little sofa has seen more apartments than I can even count. That old tan and white gingham patterned couch is old and tired these days, her coils squeak a bit now and then. Much to my frustration my cats have used her arms as scratching posts, the current fabric has caught multiple spills and splotches throughout the years. It's time. And yet, I will not be surprised if I shed a tear or two when they haul her away. In fact, I don't allow myself to think about her imminent departure all that much these days, preferring instead to steal away a few more nights curled up with a book or catching up on my favorite television shows as I've done since I inherited the couch as my own, as a 25 year old woman myself.
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This is the way it's supposed to be of course. We get older, we upgrade now and then. If things go according to plan we don't always need to rely on hand-me-down furniture or rusty shower caddies. One thing wears out, another new object moves in to replace it.
None of this is actually about the physical object of course; they are but vessels that carry a random smattering of moments, thoughts, memories, and ideas that are stored in our hearts, our minds. They are simply something we had, we held onto, at a certain place or point in our lives. Rationally I realize that the memories do not disappear with the object. Still though, I find something deeply comforting in these days of media and instant gratification and temporary this or that of thinking to myself: "I know where this came from, where it has been, where it's going. I remember. I'm aware."
In a way, for even a few fleeting years, these objects have been a piece of me, my life; a part of my story.
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