The Demise of Sock Monster

It came to my attention the other day that I had not seen him around for quite some time.  I began wondering why he had disappeared.  After all he had been a constant companion on my “grandpa” journey for over a decade . . . then he was gone.  Vanished.  Ka-put.  Gone.  Sadly, I wondered what had happened to my buddy, my partner in crime . . . this sudden demise of Sock Monster. 

The birth of our first grandchild saw the creation of the sock monster.  My companion was not the first of its kind.  No, sock monsters have been around for generations. Probably since the inception of humans wearing socks.  I imagine some adult was tasked with having to watch a crying, screaming baby.  Flustered with the rambunctious child, the adult grabbed a sock lying on the floor, slipped it over his hand, and waved it before the child in a desperate and playful gesture while speaking gibberish.  The child—shocked—quit crying.  The sock monster was born and has been entertaining children ever since . . .

 

. . . quite effectively I might add.

 

At least my sock monster did.  From the beginning, Sock Monster was a big hit with the grandkids.  He elicited laughter . . . giggles . . . and lots of joyful, silly conversation and antics.  He was an anticipated arrival, always popping up when least expected . . . but always welcomed.  He was silly.  Told the worse jokes (dad jokes).  Was always trying to steal a kiss or to tickle the unsuspecting.  The playfulness went on for years . . . over a decade much to the delight of the grandchildren and me.

 

Then one day . . . it was over.  Now I am not an overly sentimental person, but the demise of Sock Monster tugged at the ol’ heart strings.  He was a part of me.  He hung around with me. He was right there . . . beside me.  He understood me and was a major part of helping me fulfill my role as a grandpa.  I kind of miss him.  Even now I can feel a tear wanting to fall.

 

But I understand.  It wasn’t anything he did.  There wasn’t anything that either of us could have done.  It was inevitable.  A part of life . . . a part of growing up.  That was the culprit.  Grandchildren grow up and get older.  With it comes maturity no longer needing the whimsical fantasy of imagination.  There is the fading of those imaginary characters who fill the gaps in a young child’s heart and mind.  All children, including grandchildren, eventually put away their childish toys and ways.  It is only natural.  Sock Monster never had a chance.

 

The signs were there.  Either I missed them or chose to ignore them.  When the youngest two grandchildren no longer squealed with excitement when Sock Monster appeared. . . I should have known.  When they rolled their eyes upon his sudden arrival . . . I should have known.  I should have known, yet at the same time I suppose I wasn’t ready.  Wasn’t ready to let go.  Wasn’t ready to grow up . . . to put away the silliness . . . the tickling . . . the laughter.  With a “oh, Papa”, Sock Monster was eulogized and put to rest.  It was an unspoken “rest in peace”.

 

I understand.  I marvel whenever I am in the presence of my grandchildren.  They are growing and maturing faster than I or the parents want.  They are becoming human beings.  They are exploring what it means to be older and mature.  Moving further down the journey of life.  In that they are leaving behind that which they deem is childish.  That includes Sock Monster.

 

I get it . . . but it doesn’t mean I won’t acknowledge and mourn the demise of Sock Monster.  Sock Monster was a part of me as a grandparent . . . as a grandchild.  For my grandchildren and I, Sock Monster may have been laid to rest, but I don’t think he is gone.  No, I imagine that down the road, when my grandchildren start having their own children, that there will be a revival and rebirth of Sock Monster.  There are always finicky, rambunctious, crying children needing respite and relief . . . needing entertained.  In those moments they will remember . . . Sock Monster!  And the story will continue as it has for generations.

 

Souvenirs

Since retiring one of the tasks I have been assigned is to “clean house”.  I do not mean dusting and vacuuming.  The “house cleaning” I have been relegated to is going through decades of boxes stashed in closets, storage rooms, and the garage to declutter our household and lives.  It has been over five months now and the task is still uncompleted and lurking about . . . taunting me.  I would much rather dust and vacuum than having to be the judge and jury to a lifetime of collections. 

The wife and children call this amassed lifetime collection “junk” and “clutter”.  They have jumped on the Marie Kondo train focusing on tidying and decluttering one’s life to bring into focus on what brings one joy.  They side with Joshua Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus (The Minimalists) and their philosophy of getting rid of anything that does not add value to life. They idolize, especially the children, Margareta Magnusson (Swedish Death Cleaning) who believes it is our duty to declutter and simplify our lives so that loved ones are not burdened with the task once we have kicked the bucket.  For whatever reasons, I have been assigned the job of “cleaning house”, “decluttering”, and removing the “junk”.

 

“One person’s junk is another person’s treasure.”  Or so it is said.  Where they see “junk” . . . I see treasure.  Treasure that took a lifetime to collect . . . souvenirs.  A souvenir is a keepsake, item, or memento that is kept as a reminder of a place, person, or event.  They are the preludes of stories that reveal the collector and the fundamental essence of who that person is . . . the joys, sadness, laughter, tears . . . the tender essence of who they are.  They are not “junk” or “clutter”.  They are a revelation worthy of grasping and cherishing.

 

One of my favorite poets, songwriters/singers, is the late John Prine.  So often, he expresses what many of us feel but cannot put into words.  In his song, Souvenirs (LINK), he sums up my feelings where it comes to the daunting task of “cleaning house”:

 

Memories can’t be boughten

Can’t be won at carnivals for free

Well, it took me years to get those souvenirs

And I don’t know how they slipped away from me

 

Those boxes stored in closets, stacked in the garage, long forgotten by most, represent the years of my life spent collecting . . . collecting to remember.

 

Jokingly others have hinted that I am a hoarder.  I am not a hoarder.  Far from it.  But I do have “stuff” . . . souvenirs.  Earlier in my life I like to fancy myself as a “collector” . . . as one who acquired for prosperity’s sake, for historical relevance, for sentimental purposes, team loyalty, and because it was cool . . . plus, for the potential windfall down the road.  I collected sports memorabilia, artwork, dishes, toys, books, comic books, and even Beanie Babies.  When questioned about what seemed to be an insatiable need to acquire “stuff”, I would reply, “That’s my retirement!”

 

Sadly, now that I am retired, I can assure you that there ain’t no retirement to be had in all of those collectibles.  There is not a mansion in Beverly Hills with a swimming pool and movie stars.  Nothing.  Nada.  Just boxes and boxes of “souvenirs”.  Worthless in the eyes of many, but a trove or treasure to me.  Now, in retirement and with no money, I can sit around and reminisce in the midst of all my souvenirs.  What breaks my heart is that no one cares . . . after all it is just “junk” and “clutter”.

 

How did it all slip away?

 

Personally, I am thankful for all of my souvenirs.  As I have gotten into the advance stages of aging—or as my children like to say, “old”—I appreciate “prompts” that help me to remember.  All those souvenirs serve as prompts to a person, place, or time . . . to stories of beginnings and adventures of those loves, of heartbreak and joy, of discovery, of family and friends.  They serve as a sort of overture opening a story to share, a time to remember, a person who made an impact.  Those souvenirs are not “junk” or “clutter” . . . no, they are the doorways that open to a part of the story that never ends . . . the continuing saga of how we got here . . . about life . . . and it should never end.  There in lies the difficulty and frustration of having to “clean house”.  Once cleaned they will be gone and forgotten.  No one wants to be forgotten.

 

Our culture (white) does not seem to value its oldest members—its elders—like other cultures do.  That value is reflected in television shows, movies, and advertisements that usually make fun of older folks.  Nursing homes are packed where the old are warehoused.  The old are the butt of jokes.  They are no longer respected, no longer revered.  They no longer have a place of honor at the table.  Often, they are relegated to the “children’s table” . . . which I love!  Meals are a lot more fun with the kids than stuffy adults.  Lots more laughter!  As I have stumbled into elderhood, I have discovered that I am more of a hindrance than an asset.

 

That’s too bad.  With my souvenirs and advanced age, I am the “missing link” between the past, present and future.  I am the thread that runs through and connects . . . that brings context and understanding . . . the tie that binds it all together.  All of us old folks are, but like souvenirs we are seen as extra baggage, clutter—junk.

 

It’s been a little over five months since I was asked to “clean house” and “declutter” . . . five months!  I still wonder how I got to this point . . . how time seemed to move so fast . . . that I’m sitting at the nexus of having to decide what once was, what is now, worthy of tomorrow.  Worthy of being a “souvenir” for someone else.  There are so many “souvenirs” . . . so many.  So many stories to tell and share.  So much collected over a lifetime that is fading away.  Time waits for no one.

 

Junk.

 

Clutter.

 

No . . . treasures . . . souvenirs . . . stories.  Stories of how we came to be, of who we are, of laughter and tears, of hope and dreams.  Stories of purpose and meaning.  Stories of family and friends.  You and me.  Stories of what once was and what could be. 

 

It took years to collect those souvenirs.  It could take years to part with them all.  Might not make the wife or the kids happy.  But a good story should never be rushed.  I have a good one to tell.  We all do.  We are all collectors.  We all have souvenirs.  Stories . . . stories worth sharing . . . souvenirs yet to come.