What's Left Behind

An odd email showed up the other day announcing an auction of the worldly belongings of actor-singer Davy Jones, most noted for being one of the Monkees and, before that, a Tony-nominated star of Broadway and London's West End.

Puzzled, I browsed through the items to be sold at auction, guessing that I had ended up on this email list because I have been invited to speak at a Celebration of Life in New York City next month for the actor who died in 2012.

What amazed me as I scrolled through 16 online pages of items: how much we all accumulate over a lifetime; how some things one treasures -- awards, for example -- are marked for sale by family members for those with enough celebrity to attract buyers and for the trash bin for those of us who are not famous; how some things that are so critically important to us in life -- a passport, a driver's license -- become throwaways or objects of curiosity after we are gone. I was amazed at the hundreds of dollars being offered for his ordinary belongings -- shoes, nightshirts, credit cards -- and how, whether our belongings are sold at auction, given to charity or destined for the trash bin, what was once important in life becomes so meaningless once we are gone.

                                               

While it's great that this auction is raising money for Davy Jones' family or favorite charity and while it's nice that fans and collectors are happy to bid on items both ordinary and extraordinary from his life, this oh-so-final unraveling of a vibrant, very public life is a jarring reminder of our own mortality.  What was once treasured, what was once needed, what was once private is for sale to the highest bidder. This final ritual will come to all of us -- though undoubtedly in less public ways. Our spouses, our children, our siblings will sort through our suddenly useless items and decide what to keep and what to give or throw away.

It made me want to spare my family some decisions by cleaning out and organizing the keepsakes stashed in our garage and tucked away in closets. It made me wonder what I might already live without and what I might give away. It made me imagine what those I love might end up cherishing.

I thought about the curious relics from my parents, grandmother and Aunt Molly now in my home, my garage and my closets: the slinky black dress with sequined roses on the bodice that my father gave my mother in 1940 when they were dating and a box of the cards and letters they sent each other when their love was new and untested; my mother's scrapbook of her wonderful pre-marriage career; crystal dishes my grandmother used and treasured that have sat, gathering dust, in my china cabinet for more than 40 years; a plastic parrot alarm clock that made Aunt Molly laugh so heartily and that makes me smile at the memory.

It also reminds me that objects don't have nearly the power of warm memories: of my father's stories, my mother's loving embrace, my grandmother's unconditional love, Aunt Molly's laugh and sterling example of a life well lived. 

And then there are the memories of a wonderfully talented actor named Davy Jones whose unforgettable performances on stage and television thrilled a generation of young people now growing old..... and whose great kindness and compassion beyond the spotlight, when no one was looking, comprise his most enduring legacy.