I tripped over the plain brown box at the top of the stairs. The noise attracted the attention of my thoughtful daughter: “Mom, are you ok?” I answered back with a quick “I’m fine. It was just a box.” I also heard the high pitched clinking after I tripped over it. This darn box has been moved from one spot to another for almost a year now. So many other boxes have been unpacked with many items purged. Why didn’t I immediately move on to this box?
It was marked with unassuming big black words, written with an indelible marker by my husband: MISC. I had no idea what that meant. My insignificant small collectables? No. They were items from my mother. I didn’t pack them. My husband went out to the midwest from to finish packing things from my mother’s house after she died.
How do you get over the guilt that these things were not here for her to enjoy before she died? I have an ache in my soul over this thought. Was I a good daughter?
I never asked “Mom, are you ok?” when my father said she wasn’t doing well. Here I was, attending nursing school, and I was clueless to what he meant. I did ask if she had been at the doctor’s office recently. Everything seemed to be fine. Did she tell him everything? Time told us that she was not a good reporter. She thought her symptoms were a side effect of medication. In the end, it was cancer and she did not do well after the operation. At least we brought her to live with us. These were hard times. My children tried to bring her joy. She was very happy to be with us. “When will I get my sofa?” I remember these words as if it was yesterday, yet the words were spoken many years ago.
Instead of pushing the box aside, I sat down to accomplish my overdue task. The aged masking tape that held two flaps of cardboard taut pulled back easily. Crumpled newspaper was on top. Slowly, I extracted each piece delicately. Items underneath were also carefully wrapped with newspaper from my birth town. Of course, there was the heavy, clear glass ashtray. I remember washing it for my mother. The basket was unwrapped next. This used to sit on the maple end table, holding sewing needles and thread. One time, when I was 12, one of the needles escaped. I found it with my foot. The surgeon believed me and removed it with great skill. Then I found the plates. They were brass. Each one had a different ship. They stayed above the sofa always. This must have the source of the clang, as three of them were stacked together. My great grandmother came to on a ship. She was 16. Later, she married and had children. At first she was poor, living on a river bank in an unimpressive home. Time rewarded her well as her lawyer husband became president of Standard Oil of Ohio. My young daughter does not have to travel on a ship alone in order to search for a better life. Traveling on a ferry between our two states is too far. I am thankful for the better life my children have, all because of a ship. The plates represented freedom, joy and prosperity. I know I was a good daughter to a mom who just wanted to carry on a family tradition: making life better for her family.
I know God does this for us. He gives us many gifts. Gifts of food and clothing. We may have to travel in order to follow His plan. We must know, that no matter what, our life is God’s plan
It Feels Good To Win!
It feels good to win. Mom would say,” Win what dear?” I know she would want me to win something in line with… my faith.
“You just want me to follow what YOU think is right!” and I walked out the front door. “You should trust me to make my own decisions.” Did I expect her to follow me? I don’t think I expected anything. I was just impulsive and upset. I was an emotional 16 and I would take praise from anyone other than my parents. I didn’t see my mom peeking between the white mini-blinds as I went around the corner of our house. Where was I going to go at on a Tuesday night? I thought about going to Grace’s house, but Mom would call and ask if I was there. I tried that once before. I hated sitting in the mud. Why was I here? I liked my room better. This wasn’t winning.
I sat there thinking. What happened? I walked in the front door after school humming a tune. I had sports that day, so it was late. This was when my mom chose to discuss what was on her mind. “Sit down, dear.” It wasn’t unusual for her to give me fresh baked cookies. How I love the soft chocolate chip cookies! Then, mom asked me about what I was saying the day before. Why didn’t I tell her it was an assignment and not what was in my heart? Did I understand what was in her heart? What did I miss? Was I blinded by the light of my own sunshine? I didn’t tell her I didn’t believe what I debated. I didn’t tell her that it was like acting. What is going on in my heart?
We started talking about winning a debate. The teacher gave my group the issue. I don’t think Mom understood that part of the story. I didn’t explain it, really. We had to pretend we were on the side of this issue. It was like acting. Mom heard me practicing. I put all my heart in it. I was really good! It fooled her so much that it scared her! She didn’t say anything at first. How did I know? I kept my enthusiasm. When I went to school and gave my debate topic with my group, we won! I think it was my, our, enthusiasm for the issue! We did have amazing research, too! We won. We mattered. And it was good. I felt good inside!
I sat on the side of the house in the mud. Why do women like facials? Cleansing mud. OK. Maybe I get it. I sure am cleansed on the inside now! I was going to have to walk back through that front door and start over.
“Mom! I need a shower!” she came over and took one look at me. Of course we both knew that the most joyful thing was the inner cleansing of my soul.
“Now, that is one thing that we both agree on! Go take a shower and then we can both have some blueberries with whipped cream!”
“Now that is a win” We both smiled at that one!
Yes, it does feel good to win.
“The one who sees baby’s first tooth buys the first pair of shoes.”
In the bottom of the gray plastic container were a layer of baby shoes. They were over twenty-five years old. A pair from each child. They never shared shoes. The first trip to the shoe store came when the baby first walked. The first son’s blue and white pair came from the same Buster Brown store that his father was cared for some thirty years before. Of course the salesman was someone different, but everything else in the store remained the same. It was awesome! Now it would be the first grandson’s time soon. He just started crawling, but he will walk soon!
Beth had kept these old shoes for sentimental value. Sometimes they were worn by brown bear, which was abandoned at the airport one year. Her son, in his new blue and white shoes, had walked over to the floor to ceiling window. He giggled then walked back with a cuddly brown bear. No other child was in site. It was now Eli’s. Now brown bear’s place was on a shelf in the royal grandchild room. Yes, the royal room! It was Beth’s pleasure to provide a classic room full of her own children’s treasures. Sadly, she knew she couldn’t save everything. Choices had to be made. But the shoes?
Her children had such an affinity for classic toys—legos, logs and miniature characters like My Little Pony. Were the headless Barbie dolls classic? Did the dolls every fight? She certainly hoped this room would not be underused! Each toy had a place on the shelf.
Beth took the blue and white baby shoes out of the container. She placed them on the paws of brown bear. It would soon be the birthday of her son that found the bear. She hugged him. What else could she do but giggle?
THE LAST GLANCE
My father cried at my mother’s wake. When she died, he asked for a bag of potato chips. Of course, this was after a friend asked if she could get him anything. At the funeral he said my mother always wanted a new patio door. “I should have bought that for her.” And he wiped away a tear with the white handkerchief that he always kept in his back pocket. Then he took one last glance of my mother, and bowed his head.
The following days became months. They were months of hardship for all of us. My father’s health faltered. He had a complicated hip fracture that either undermined his health or was a consequence of ill health. Maybe years of stress took their toll. I remember my father guzzling down a white liquid from a blue bottle. For him, that was hitting the bottle. He may have joked about “Give me a shot of whiskey,” but I never saw him drink. I actually knew he didn’t drink. When I was becoming of age, he told me that if he ever saw anyone give me a drink “I will knock their head off.” I believed him. I never let him see anyone give me a drink of alcohol.
We had Nancy, the nurse, as his primary home-care nurse. She was terrific. He was not an easy man to care for these days. For one, he was a big man with a starting height of over six feet. He weighed over 200 pounds. Yet, at this time he was probably a few inches taller and a few pounds lighter. Those pounds were heavier though as he couldn’t lift his weight like he used to throw it around. This one time policeman in “Little Chicago” was an old man. I finally began to see his age. I never knew he had a soft heart—well, I never really thought about it until I saw him so hurt by life’s natural consequences. My husband would always say that my father was a “good man.” It does take one to know one!