I commented the other day about objects that remind me of my parents. A couple of friends, Kathryn and Rachel, have picked on that and posted their memories.

Karl Marx

Now there’s a name. A significant name, a philosopher, author of The Communist Manifesto and Das Kapital, a leader. I read the manifesto a long time ago and other writings here and there. Dad read a lot of his stuff and had many of his books. In the 70s, my dad started out a baptist minister, became an atheist in the middle and joined the communist party and at some point moved from communism to socialism. He read a lot and talked a lot, discussing his ideas and thoughts.

Marx

From a young age, I can remember the colourful display of Marx books on the shelf together. I wouldn’t say it’s my earliest memory of him but it’s possibly a constant of sorts in my life of knowing dad. I could spot that little row of books and I knew I was in dad’s space. I have toyed with different ideas for displaying them though none carried out as yet. Many years back, I liked the idea of sticking them together as a block in a perspex box to hang on the wall. That idea of moving them from textual works to an art of sorts seems appropriate given the nature of my memory of their physicality. Taking that a step further, I have also considered sticking them together, slicing off the spines and framing them as a single, flat, colourful strip. For now they sit in a glass cabinet alongside the whisky.

For mum, memories are different. She was more of an introvert and a bit of a hoarder perhaps or more that sense of thrift of her parents passed down, the idea of not tossing things that could be useful. Her favourite takeaway was from the local red rooster: two pieces of chicken and chips. Even when she was in the nursing home, we would take that in for her on her birthday. These takeaway meals usually included cutlery and moist wipes. When cleaning out the old house, we found lots and lots of plastic forks and packets of wipes. Though I don’t think I have any in the drawer myself, plastic forks remain a visual reminder of my mother.

I continue to be fascinated by the sense of being the melting pot of my parents: a thing from her, a thing from him. This thing I am has all those things though not necessarily in the same measures.

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