Object Stories: Memory, Meaning, and Keepsakes

You’ve probably got something in your house that looks ordinary to everyone else—but to you, it’s a story. A chipped mug. A souvenir spoon. A game-worn jersey, or a matchbook from a bar that isn’t there anymore. These objects aren’t special because of what they’re worth. They’re special because of what they’ve witnessed.

Today’s story comes with wood glue, nicks in the finish, and maybe a loose leg or two. But it might also come with dust, velvet, enamel, brass, or sticker residue. We’re talking about the kind of objects that carry more than just weight. They hold memory, meaning, and sometimes a bit of mystery too.

To make this journey simple, I’ll focus on something you find in every home: furniture. But make no mistake: what is said here about furniture can apply to almost anything. These objects stay in the room long after the conversation ends. They move from house to house, change owners, and might be handed down through the generations. I’ll share a story of my own, reflect on why memory clings to things we can touch, and as always, we’ll wrap up with a writing prompt that might just help you open a drawer you haven’t looked in for a while.

A Personal Story

I once hauled a hundred-year-old rocking chair across eight states, wedged between a lamp table and a box of pots and pans.

The chair had belonged to my wife’s grandmother, then through my wife to my grandmother, then back to my wife. Oak, Mission style—back slats, straight lines, solid as Allegheny granite. One arm had the finish worn smooth where her elbow rested, worn down by time and skin.

When we got married in 1974 in Colorado, my wife had already owned and used it for years. And when we moved back east, she couldn’t leave it behind.

We packed everything we owned into a short-frame Dodge van we’d just bought. My wife—a former airline stewardess—ran that van like it was an overhead bin with attitude. Anything with a hollow space got stuffed; nothing was wasted. The rocker rode snug and cozy.

That chair has lived in every place we’ve rented or owned since. It’s spent time in bedroom corners and by living room reading nooks—always useful, never in the way. I replaced the seat once and tightened the joints more than once. It’s still going strong, a hundred years later.

Even though the rocker was passed down through my wife’s family, I’ve developed a fondness for it as well. What I remember most about the chair isn’t my grandmother sitting in it—though she did—but me, as an adult, climbing in, settling back, letting the rock of the chair carry me away and ease my stress. No other chair in the world has ever held me like that.

Reflection & Writing Tips

We tend to think of furniture as background—practical things. But memory turns them into something else. They soak up our routines, our rituals. A dining table isn’t just a table—it’s where you broke news, broke bread, and broke into laughter.

These objects become silent witnesses. And that’s why they make such great memoir material.

So how do you write a story like this?

Start with one item. The older, the better—but only if you remember it well.

Ask:

• Where was it in the house?
  
• Who used it most?
  
• What sounds, smells, or moments happened around it?

Zoom in on a single moment story and develop from there. Don’t try to cover years of use. Go for one evening, one conversation, one change—that’s enough.

You don’t need a grand event. The rocking chair I mentioned? Its story isn’t dramatic. It’s just emotional. That’s what gives it weight.

Use sensory detail: Is the cushion cracked leather? Was the drawer sticky with old varnish? Did it creak, slam, wobble, shine?

Use emotional truth: If it reminds you of someone, say so. If it annoyed you, say so. If it outlived a marriage, or moved with you after a loss, let that show.

And remember—you’re not writing about a chair. You’re writing about your life, disguised as a chair.

Key Takeaway

The meaning behind the objects we keep isn’t about their utility—it’s about witness. It’s about how that object participated in your life. What it held. What it knew.

So this week, when you write, don’t focus on describing the object. Focus on what happened around it. That’s where the story lives.

Listener Mailbox

This week’s question comes from Donna in Sarasota (hi, Donna!). In fact, her question got me to thinking about today’s topic. She says:

“I want to write about my grandmother’s hope chest; it meant a lot to her, and it means a lot to me. The problem is, what’s there to write about? It just sits there and holds stuff. Can I build a story around something I remember more with feeling than with facts?”

Donna, I’m glad you’re tuned in to your grandmother’s hope chest, and want your readers to connect with how you feel about it. You’re on the right track. .

Here’s rule #1 about writing a memoir: memoir isn’t journalism. It’s memory. If your memory offers you a faded image, work with that. Don’t invent—but feel free to blend.

You might remember the chest, but not the contents. In that case, write what you think was in it—and then, be transparent. You can say: “I can’t recall if it was her wedding dress or a baby blanket, but I remember the smell: cedar and old perfume.”

When details are missing, focus on emotional clarity. What did the chest mean to you? How did it make you feel to open it? Who was she to you, and how did that change over time?

Your job isn’t to build a perfect replica. Your job is to open the door so the reader can walk in and share the moment with you.

Prompt of the Week

Here’s your writing prompt for this week:

Write about an object with a story to tell.

Stuck? Try these questions:

• Where did the object come from?
  
• What events or rituals took place around it?
  
• What does it say about the people who used it?

Maybe it’s a battered table that hosted a thousand family dinners. A bookshelf that moved with you through every apartment. A nightstand that held your child’s baby monitor—and later, their high school graduation photo.

You don’t need to “finish” the story. Just get it started. Write a moment. Write a feeling. Write what the furniture might remember—if it could talk.

What object are you writing about?

If today’s episode brought a piece of your past into sharper focus, I’d love to hear about it.

Drop me a note at MemoirClub.net. You can also download a Scene Builder Worksheet through the link in this week’s Story Sparks newsletter. And hey—don’t forget to subscribe, and share the podcast with a friend who has a story or two tucked in their attic.

Until next time, I’m Wayne Jordan—thanks for listening to the Memoir Club Podcast.