Ancestor Watch

Do you have an heirloom watch that doesn't work?  Why not turn it into a memento of it's owner?  The blog, maizehutton.com, tells us how to replace the watch face and workings with a photograph of a loved one.  What a wonderful way to keep their memory with you always!

Heirlooms: Using them, Choosing them, Making them, Giving them

I've been thinking about Heirlooms lately. . .

Heirlooms we own—Use and share.

The purpose of an heirloom in my opinion is to pique the interest of the younger generation so that they will want to hear its story, thus becoming connected with generations past.  The value isn’t in the item; it is in the story behind the item.  I think it’s important to ask, “How am I using my heirlooms?”  If I am letting them just sit in a box, I do not own heirlooms, I own white elephants—worthless items that have no purpose.  But I don’t have to despair because all that heirlooms require for their value to be restored is for their story to be told.  So lets dig out that old hand-tatted collar every year or so, gather the children around, and tell them about the hours Grandma spent making it and how beautiful Grandpa thought she looked wearing it on her wedding day.

Heirlooms we choose—Small and simple.

Sometimes we are lucky enough to choose what we receive as heirlooms from loved ones.  If this is the case, I think the choice should be made based on an item’s beauty, usefulness or the story behind it, not it’s economic value.  Why?  Because it will never be sold.  If it’s beautiful, useful, or has a story and happens to be valuable, too, that is one thing, but if it is merely valuable monetarily, I say let Brother Bob have it. 

Also, consider the size of the heirloom and the capacity of your home.  My Grandpa Richard arrived home from a hunting trip one day with a huge buck triumphantly in tow.  He was so proud of his trophy that he stuffed it, named it John Henry, and hung it on the wall.  When my Grandpa Richard passed away, I chose a lovely flower from his funeral bouquet, pressed it and placed it in a tiny frame.  It sits on my dresser taking less than two square inches of space.  It is enough to remind me of my grandpa every day—no John Henry required.   So if Sister Sue wants the full-sized plaster sculpture of the mule that Grandpa Gus owned, I say, let her have it and take the kids and grandkids on a yearly field trip to her house to see it and to hear the story of how the mule saved Grandpa’s life.