Probably the worst thing about being back in school is the toll it takes on my pleasure reading. There's always more assigned reading to do, which makes me feel incredibly guilty about picking up a favorite old paperback or something new I've had my eye on.

Don't get me wrong; it still happens from time to time. Just not as much as I'd like.

That's why it's so exciting when your assigned reading is something you can really enjoy, as was the case this week. I was assigned Laurel Thatcher Ulrich's "The Age of Homespun," which uses objects and accounts from colonial America to tell a story that goes beyond "big-event" history and enters into colonists' homes.

The theory behind such an approach is that the objects people use -- in this case, things like spinning wheels, hand-woven baskets and tablecloths -- hold important information about what those people value and believe. It's called material culture, and, to my mind, Ulrich (who just so happens to be LDS) uses the approach to great effect.



Probably because the theory was so interesting to me, I've thought several times over the past few days about what exactly a historian 200 years from now might deduce about my life using a similar approach -- and how I'd feel about her conclusions.

After all, among the first objects I use every day are my hair dryer and flat iron. What could my imagined future historian deduce by looking at those objects? That I belonged to a culture that placed a lot of value on superficial things? Or perhaps that I was afflicted with at least some degree of vanity?

Or what about my computer and cell phone? Those might speak to a degree of connectedness and productivity I wouldn't mind so much -- but what if she could also somehow deduce that the hours I spend online aren't often motivated by such a noble cause? What if she could track the time I spend reading blogs that are more entertaining than informative, or unearth all the moments when a word game distracted me from my work?

Would she see my shelves and shelves of books as evidence of an appetite for learning, or a need for constant distraction? Or perhaps as proof of rampant consumerism? After all, she'd surely know I could have borrowed all those books from libraries and saved myself some money and space, wouldn't she?

And really, it's almost comical to think what my closet stuffed with clothes and probably 20 pairs of shoes would say about me.

Would she look at my recipe box -- filled with titles like Steak with Mixed Peppercorns and Pomegranate Glaze, and Blue Cheese Polenta Cakes with Arugula, Caramelized Onions and Walnuts -- and decide it was a prime example of a spoiled society that had completely given in to decadence and indulgence?

Granted, those are all rather negative readings, but they seem within the realm of possibility, don't they?

Of course, the truth is I have no way of knowing what that future historian would think of me, simply because I don't know what her world will look like. But the exercise is still illuminating. After all, the things on which we choose to spend our money; the things we deem worth sorting, packing and unpacking when we move; the things to which we're willing to devote precious shelf and closet space -- they must say something about us, mustn't they?

Perhaps I'd be more pleased if she chose to examine a box in my closet full of old cards, notes and ticket stubs, and concluded I was someone who valued my loved ones and was eager to experience new and different things. Or maybe I'd like her to look at the things I've chosen to hang on my walls and determine that I appreciated beauty and memories.

But then, that flat iron would still be hanging out in that basket under my mirror, and she'd probably be wise enough to conclude I spent more hours looking at my computer screen than at the art on my walls.

That's not to say I'm going to get rid of my computer or stop styling my hair, of course.

Whatever other spin might be applied to those objects, in many ways they're useful and necessary parts of my life. It's just that the more I think about the objects that define me, the less I'd like to believe that those types of things would be at the top of the list.

It's sort of the material-culture equivalent of "for where your treasure is, there will your heart be also." Only I can determine which of the objects that make up my everyday world are my treasures, but everything I possess must at least be in the running -- simply because it's hard to imagine that the things I touch and breathe every day wouldn't be able to tell a rather accurate story of who I am.

At least, that's what that future historian would have to think. And I have a hunch she'd be right.