Sometimes you need things rather than just thoughts.
― Patrick Ness, The Rest of Us Just Live Here

Decades before author and journalist Patrick Ness argued for the necessity of things, American poet William Carlos Williams (I still can’t get my head wrapped around parents who would name their son William Williams) wrote that there are “no ideas but in things.” This line from his 1927 poem, Paterson, became a kind of credo for 20th century poetry. That is, he argued for a “direct treatment of the thing,” a contrast and reaction to the 18th and 19th century writers’ affinity to symbolism and abstraction. Ground an idea in the concrete, Williams contended, rather than float it, untethered, into abstraction.

For years as I taught modern poetry, I sought to help students understand this notion: that all abstractions are built upon concrete foundations; that what we know and feel stems from our experiences with the sensory world. It goes without saying that we learn to understand “hot” as children by directly experiencing it–generally after we’ve been warned not to do so. For the word “hot” is an abstraction that only carries real meaning once we’ve experienced it, that is, once we’ve felt it. “Hot” lives first in things–in steaming mugs of hot chocolate and bowls of soup ladeled right from the pot, on stove tops and radiators–before it lives as an idea. Both Ness and Williams understood this.

For years before my mom died, she urged her children and grandchildren to take things of family and sentimental value home with them. She didn’t push these things on us; rather she gently urged them out the door and into new homes. We all have pieces we cherish of the Welch and Zorn legacy in our own homes. Now as we prepare our family home for sale, once again, we look to the things that have defined every room, those things that carry so many experiences and memories with them. And as we’ve encouraged our children to find these things that hold such experiences and memories in them, I’ve often been surprised at their choices.

One of my nieces wanted the little white clock that lived on the ledge in the upstairs bathroom for decades. It’s not antique, nor has it been passed down from either my mom’s or dad’s families. But for her, it’s a glorious reminder of all the times she spent at her grandparents’ house and slept in an upstairs bedroom. Or take my nephew’s choice: the carved wooden bowl that sat on the coffee table for years. Underneath its lid, one could find real treasure: peanut M & Ms, holiday candy, assorted treats. Every grandkid undoubtedly has fond memories of asking–begging–for permission to sample the goods in the wooden candy bowl, which never disappointed.

For years, my mom collected and painted Goofus glass. In the early 20th century, this pressed glass was decorated with unfired enamel paint by several popular glass factories. Over the years, we’ve all been gifted pieces of Goofus glass: bowls and plates, vases and trays. In the whole world of vintage glassware, it’s worth relatively little. To us, however, it’s priceless, for it testifies to the many hours that my mom spent repainting it, lovingly restoring each piece to the glory she believed that it deserved.

The paperweight on the desk in the den, the countless trophies from decades of homing pigeon races, the bevy of small cobalt blue glass birds, the gallery of family photos in the upstairs’ hallway and scattered throughout the bedrooms, the blonde cedar chest, the books (a legion of books!). the envelopes of letters (love letters from my dad, letters from family and friends), the dining room table around which we sat for some of the best hours of our lives–these are, I know, simply things. If all of them were to disappear, we would still remember the memories they carry. Still, as vivid as these memories are, sometimes you just need the real thing. Sometimes, you need to pick it up, to run your fingers along its edges and over its surface, to hold it solidly in your hands.

As we gather for my mom’s memorial service this weekend, we will all gather at our family home once again. My sisters and I will encourage those who haven’t found their own special thing to select one. Our memories may be abstract ideas that live in our heads and hearts, but how well they first live in things. Now and in the years to come, we need these things. These are memories with skin on, so to speak; these are the concrete objects through which the Welch and Zorn legacy will live on.