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“RIFFING OFF” is a term used in music and particularly jazz. It describes when a musician picks up a musical line played by another musician and then runs with it, adding his or her own style or take.
I love riffing off my co-writers—and when they riff off me. I also do it sometimes with HumbleDollar articles and blog posts. I read a thoughtful piece and then, as the day goes on, I think about the core concept or even just a single line, and let my mind dwell on it.
That happened when I read a recent Richard Quinn piece. He began by recalling his grandmother’s silver napkin rings, and then went on to discuss his and his wife’s collection of Waterford glass. I was struck that he conceded that today’s monetary value of the accumulated crystal might not be all that much, but that—in terms of memories—such items were “priceless.”
That got me thinking. I wanted for very little growing up. But I have almost nothing physical left from all the accoutrements of a privileged childhood. What I do hold on to is a tiny terra cotta pot.
One day, my father brought home a group of these pots, one for each member of the family. He proceeded to paint one thing on each: a crew cut on the big one represented my father, a ’60s updo my mother, nerdy glasses my bookish brother, deep blue eyes my sister. As for me, the youngest, there was the tiniest pot—with an open, yelling mouth. My dad hung all the pots on the patio together, and they became priceless. I still have mine, and I believe my siblings still have theirs.
Another time, my father brought home a stack of large cardboard boxes from his factory. I don’t recall who started it, but everyone in the family joined in making a long tunnel. It was just before Halloween, so we started adding creepy things inside, creating our own haunted crawl-through house.
We offered to let trick-or-treaters crawl through it to get to the candy. It was a neighborhood hit, and I remember rushing my own door-to-door collecting, so I could get home and help my family run the tunnel for others. Years later, my wife, sons and I riffed off that memory, creating our own neighborhood Halloween haunted tunnel, though with more modern tech. That’s now a family favorite memory for a new generation.
I share with Dick the experience of offering formerly valued items to my children, only to be met with a resounding “meh.” But let’s not lose sight of the things that have value beyond dollars and beyond what we can sometimes appreciate: the memories, the family moments, the unseen glue that connects us. Those are the family treasures we should guard and cherish.
When I was six years old, I started to read and accumulate books. My father took an old china cabinet that was sitting around, used some spare paneling and my set of baby blocks, and converted it into a little bookcase. This is just about the only thing I have left from the 1950s. Of course, it would mean nothing to anyone else, and they will just toss it out when I pass on.
Homemade stuff creates some of the best memories. When my sons were 7 and 8, we put in some shelves for their books, toys, and junk. They “helped,” so the shelves were slanted and didn’t meet quite right at the corners. When we moved, one of my sons said he wished we could take the shelves with us as they meant a lot to him. Maybe the things that mean something only to us are the secret treasures we accumulate in life.
“privileged childhood”…what does that mean?
Oh my, Mik, there are so many ways it was privileged. First, I never wanted for shelter or food (a 2017 study indicates 13 million children go to school hungry due to poverty), nor was I ever seriously worried about my personal or economic security. I was provided a top prep school education with all the then-latest tech (a recent study says that 1 in 4 households today don’t have internet; imagine that in the remote learning of today!). My race (though I grew up a minority religion) was not a barrier, though my good friend, who is African American, was denied entry to some things and forbidden by some parents from even talking with their daughters. I received plenty of gifts every holiday, and if I was denied, it was