What we carry with us when we go

I went to a funeral this week. Out by the coat rack the new widow was making sure somebody brought a little bag of dirt. "Oh yes! There it is," she said when the small snack-sized bag appeared. I peered inside. She shook it, gently. "It's dirt from Fenway Park. It's going in his casket with him." The deceased would be laid to rest in his Red Sox jersey, covered in a baseball blanket, with his Patriots Super Bowl rings, and another little Ziploc bag of little bits of colorful paper — confetti collected from the field at one of the Patriots' Super Bowl triumphs. It got me thinking about what we carry with us when we go. My dad died in October and I remember thinking the only part of me that was glad about it was that it was almost Halloween, so it was fairly easy for me to find a rubber chicken. There was a longstanding family joke involving Dad, a former brother-in-law and a rubber chicken and in that weird space between his death and the funeral, that was one of my priorities: finding a damn chicken to put in his casket. Explain that one when you meet St. Peter, Daddy-O. I tucked a plastic container full of tiny letters in my nephew's casket. That was the return of a favor, really. A few years before he died, he — a teen at the time — had asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I had been nursing a broken heart and told him what I wanted most was a love letter. He misheard me and thought I said a "bowl of letters," and on my birthday he presented me with a small Tupperware bowl full of small, handwritten notes of reasons he loved me. To this day it is one of my prized possessions that I would probably be tempted to run into my burning house to save, if it came down to it. I've been to funerals where families have had to do discreet "sweeps" during calling hours to clear out some of the parting gifts people have left behind. How many beer bottle caps does one freshly departed person need on the Other Side, I have wondered? Is there a heaven I did not learn about where they are redeemed for door prizes? The idea of what we carry with us, or what others think we should carry with us, even on our very last journey, has been on my mind this week as I've been trying to tackle long-neglected organizational projects around my house. I know the Swedes call this "death cleaning," but around here it's just called "my God I can't live like this" and so there I was, trying to tackle my shameful closets before I die. I hate that job but this week I hated the news even more and I chose to face the chaos of my overwhelming shelves, thinking I might be able to put some order back in place there. Chipping away at the mess was like being at an archaeological site and trying to figure out what life had been like for the humans who left these clues behind: What sort of person would hoard these 12 empty little peppermint tins and for what reason? Is this a bag of googly-eyes? Why does she have a 15-pound block of wax, five birdhouses, the unabridged works of Shakespeare, pipe cleaners and butane? What goes on here? I'd like to just start with an apology to anyone out there who might be needing staples, standard size. It appears I've been hoarding them, despite only having one stapler. I cannot account for this, though I do love a good Swingline. A few years ago I cleaned out my bedside drawer and realized, based on its contents, I apparently have the same interests as a 10-year-old boy. It contained several pocket knives, a Swiss army knife, three travel-size flashlights, a handful of tiny screwdrivers, a packet of sparklers, an enormous claw that looked like it came from a bear or maybe a saber-toothed tiger or even something prehistoric, interesting rocks, a keychain with a tape measure that said "Vote For Lawler," two neon yellow golf balls with SpongeBob on them and gum. I don't know who Lawler is, I don't golf, and I have no idea where that claw came from, but am I surprised to find that I collected these things in my rambles and brought them home in my pockets over time? Not a bit. My mom told me that when I was little she always checked my hands when I was sleeping because she often found me gently holding tiny frogs that I carried in from my wanderings. The bleaker the news, the bigger the garbage bags I carted out of here this week. I imagine at this pace, my spring cleaning will be done before the snow thaws. Contact Chronicle-Telegram columnist Rini Jeffers at rinijeffers@gmail.com.