I’d like to officially go on record to retract an oft-repeated statement that the most important things in life aren’t things, they are people. I was partially wrong. People are important, but, sometimes, there are things in our lives that rank pretty darn high. This weekend, I was reminded of this by a pair of boots. Leave it to my big sister, Cindy, to teach me this lesson.

First, you should know that Cindy is our unofficial family librarian, our own Library of Congress. She keeps the valuable stuff no one else thinks about. Like boots. More on that later.

So, before you read further, make a note of who should be your KOTTM, Keeper of Things That Matter. It doesn’t have to be a relative. Any organized person who loves you will do. Not sure who? Here’s a situational example: You just read The Magic Art of Tidying Up and decide to get rid of your vinyl record collection, family scrapbooks and birthday cards from your teenage years. Who do you call to walk you off the throw-it-in-the-trash can ledge?

Stop. Breathe. Slowly, place those items in a very big packing box and call your KOTTM. Texting is acceptable. Chances are your chosen Keeper will rush over, gather up your stuff, and walk away until you grow up and realize you really want it.

Cindy keeps things I completely forget about until I was mature enough to cherish them. Like my late Aunt Clovis’s hand-written From the Kitchen of Clovis Brack recipe for field peas (hint: ham hocks make the smoky flavor), plastic bins of family photos, and my seventh-grade report card. Yikes. Scratch that last one.

Or my father’s work boots.

Cindy stopped by to drop off a few things — birthday cards and gifts for my children, school pictures from her grandchildren and…Dad’s boots.

If you know me, it’s no secret I was one of the lucky ones who adored my father. And for good reason. He was the consummate great dad, with a DNA that was all goodness. A Greatest Generation guy, he survived World War II, economic hard times, running his own construction business, and raising four daughters, three of whom decided to get married within two years, the last of which would do in any human being. Not Dad. He loved every minute and told anyone who would listen. Some would say to him, “Gosh, Sherman, four girls? God bless you.” He’d reply with a big grin, “Yep, He sure did.”

At age 18, was I aware of such goodness? Mostly, no. Thankfully, my sister, who was 11 years older, sure did with the good sense to keep his things I didn’t think mattered.

At early dark thirty on summer mornings when I was little, Dad would often take me to his construction site. Dressed in all denim, wearing his brown leather Dingo boots, I would hear him walking down the hallway to wake me up. “Today is your lucky day, honey,” he’d say, “I need a helper at the site.” I was more than willing to help, wearing my own pair of boots.

Last weekend, I guess my sister decided I was ready to be the owner of Dad’s boots. There they were — the tips worn from his construction days. For once, I was rendered speechless. After Cindy left, I placed Dad’s boots on my office table, which is where they have remained.

I texted my husband, sisters, and children, asking them what things reminded them of me? Paint chips, framed holiday cards, Papa’s red toolbox, and a label maker were their replies. I sound like a craft store. But, I’ll take it.

I doubt Dad would have guessed his worn boots would be the object of decades-old sentiment, but there they sit, on my table. I’m 9 years old again, ready for the chance to be by my Dad’s side. So, in a way, he is still by mine.