Now I have them.
To me, they are breathtaking. I know that they were in the hands of precious people in my life, but long gone and almost forgotten now, you know? I never knew my mother's grandmother, but my own grandmother was the sweetest and most loving woman. She loved me.
All of my childhood and into my adult life, when at my mom's, I would pass by these things displayed perfectly in hutches, sideboards, and corner shelves. I would look at them, afraid to pick them up, much less touch them in their delicacy and sentimentality.
Now they are in my house.
In boxes, with no room to display them anywhere in this former homeschooling home of books, books, and more books, they stay. She gave me one hutch where I have some things in it, but there is so much.
What are they saying? Is is a crime?
The guilt is tremendous that they remain in boxes. I haven't had the nerve to store them in the attic, however, maybe there is some consolation there. Taking them out every so often to touch and remember is about all I can do....for now. What are my grandparents and great-grandparents saying? OK, silly, they don't care, but what would they think in life about these possessions that they knew would be passed down into the future generation?
Not doing them justice, but....
Selling them, or giving them away would not solve the guilt only exacerbate it. The dichotomy is that I am sentimental, but hate clutter.