I have more stuff than I will ever need, but I love all of it. I have things from my grandparents, my mother, my travels, my friends and my family. They are treasured memories.

I love the pieces my children gave me; a deep-green Mexican tequila decanter and lovely pink and white pottery with matching slat and pepper shakers. I love the music box from my long-time friends Beverly and Sam that plays the melody, “Memories.” My mother’s big pot is perfect for cooking barbecue sauce or soup or corn. The cover doesn’t fit too tightly, but I remember all the treats –sweet and sour stuffed cabbage, meat balls, and chicken soup with Matzoh balls — that came out of that pot. How could I possibly give it away?

In 1972, I went to Israel and bought a vase for forty-two cents from a Bedouin on a camel. That vase has sat on a shelf in all the places I’ve lived. And that wonderful sculpture of mother and child by an Ethiopian Jewish artist I bought in a crafts fair in Jerusalem is on the next shelf. My Sister, Milly, died several years ago and I have her warm,  cuddly oversized-robe, her sweater which is miles too big for me and her blue and white dishes. When I wear her clothes, I feel close to her. I savor drinking coffee from Milly’s mugs and eating dinner from her dishes. Each meal is a reminder of her. At night, watching television, I wear her black velvet very big for me caftan. Some of her needlepoint hangs in my home, crowding the walls, but where else could it go?

My bureau drawers are filled with things I never use like my Aunt Dotty’s earrings and my mother’s pins. Her diamond ring is in the vault. My sister loved big rhinestone-covered pins, all of which I have,  some in the bureau, some in a box under the kitchen table .  Looking  through my closet, preparing for winter, I found all the collars she put on different coats and dresses and her wonderful art deco gloves with rhinestones and fur — things my low-key Boston friends would think are tacky.

Many people I know are downsizing at this stage of life. They move from big houses to smaller condominiums or townhouses. The collected wisdom is that older people don’t need much, which I don’t go along with at all. I want all my “stuff” around me for as long as I live. I remember when my precious Aunt Dotty was in and assisted-living residence in Florida. She was stripped down to a few photographs; other things she wanted to keep were often stolen. She was totally paralyzed for the last ten years of her life, and I know seeing those things around her would have been comforting. Why don’t the planners of these developments understand that people need their memories and symbols of the meaning of their lives.

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What would I take if I had to leave my home for some emergency? If there was some cataclysmic event like a fire, I would only be able to take small things that I could carry. Photographs would be the best resource for memories. Of course, I would take different photographs of my family. I could not leave my sister behind or my mother or brother or Marcia, his wife, or their children. I would need to remember my friends and take their photos too. I would take would I could to put under a pillow wherever I slept. Those pictures could keep me warm forever.