My Hero Wore Fur

Not all super heroes wear a cape. Mine wore a mink coat.

First grade Christmas party.  My mother, then 22 years old, brought snow white cupcakes with red sprinkles to a room full of rowdy ready-for-Santa first graders on the last day before Christmas break in 1964.  She looked like she stepped off the pages of Teen Magazine dressed in pink stirrup pants, fluffy sweater, gold sparkly shoes and a mink coat.

Actually, she wore a mouton coat, but in the eyes of these first graders, it was a mink coat.  Like the one Marilyn Monroe wore when she surprised the world and up and married old Joltin’ Joe.

My friends asked me if she was a movie star.  Simple answer:  How could she be a movie star when she’s my mama?

She was 16 years old when I was born.  Just 10 months and 13 days after she married my daddy.  Standing in front of a justice of the peace in a gray suit borrowed from her sister, my mother was a child bride.  I have pictures of me as a baby with my teenage mother’s favorite doll, Annie Oakley.  My daddy gave her that doll… and me.  They went on to have 4 more children and Annie Oakley was forgotten somewhere along the way.

Standing just north of 5 ft. tall, mama was not like all the other mothers.  She was pretty with her dark curly hair, perfect complexion and twinkling eyes. She painted her lips in Avon Red Velvet and always smelled like Evening in Paris perfume.  On Saturdays, we watched American Bandstand and sang and danced around the living room with Dick Clark and the American Bandstand Dancers.  When it came time for my daddy to get home from work, she washed our faces and combed our hair and stood at the window waiting for him to drive up.   He came home to her every single day for 55 years.

Super heroes do cry sometimes.   My mama has lost 3 of her 5 children and 7 of her 11 siblings.  Her beloved husband passed away suddenly six years ago.  She doesn’t laugh as much and her brown eyes are a little less bright.

American Bandstand has been replaced with The Young and the Restless as must-see-TV and her glamorous mouton coat is in storage at my house.  The last bottle of Evening in Paris that my daddy gave her sits on my dresser, empty now.  I still occasionally take the top off just to get a whiff of my childhood.

My mama is no less a hero today than she was that day she made her 6 year old daughter the envy of all the other first graders.  She is still beautiful with dark curly hair, a perfect complexion and, yes, sometimes Red Velvet lips.

 

 

Lessons on Black Leather

He was clad in typical motorcycle garb – black leather vest, leather chaps, motorcycle boots, dew rag hanging out of his helmet, hugging a big black Harley.  A rugged, bear of a man.

Stopping next to him at the red light gave me an opportunity to critique him like a New York Times book reviewer.  My southern mama’s mind went to work immediately.  That is nothing but trouble. 

Then I saw him.  Riding shotgun was a miniature replica of Mr. Motorcycle Dude.  Little black leather vest, a red, white and blue bandana tired around his neck.  I could see shiny brown eyes peeping from underneath wind-blown silver and brown hair. A tiny pink tongue darted in and out to the rhythm of the distinct rattle of the V-twin engine.  Seeming to grin from ear to ear, the little Yorkshire terrier was sitting pretty in a rigged up safety seat built especially for him.   Four or five pounds of best friend. 

Puppy dogs and babies soften even the hardest shell of a person.

Why do we judge people on how they look?  How they dress?  Even what they drive?

On second glance, maybe he is a doctor who cares for terminally ill patients every day except Friday’s when he rides his Harley through the back streets of DeSoto County to unwind.

Maybe he is a fireman who worked most of the night putting his own life in danger to save someone else’s family and is headed out of the city for a break.

Maybe he is a teacher who gets through to the ignored, abused, forgotten children of our world because they can relate to him.

Maybe he is the butcher, the baker or candle stick maker.  He is someone’s son, dad, husband, friend.   

Whatever he does or whatever he drives or however he is dressed does not determine who he is.  Except when he is stopped at a red light next to a somewhat set-in-her-ways, self-proclaimed southern belle with a really hard shell who is learning new lessons on humanity.  (Matthews 7:1)

Every.  Single.  Day.    

This I know to be true:    Anyone who takes his Yorkie for a ride on his Fat Boy on a beautiful, sunny Friday afternoon is a hero in my book. 

Birthday Special

A purple balloon floated out in front of my car this morning on my drive to work.  Bright and shiny and new.  Announcing the beginning of a birthday week for some lucky child, I’m sure.  Probably that little blond haired girl who lives just beyond the curve at Pine Tree Loop near my house.

Birthdays now a days are big business.  Inflatable bouncies, gourmet cupcakes, gift bags filled with goodies to take home, limo rides to the newest arcade or overpriced pizza place. 

Mothers have to be creative and come up with “special” and “different” ways to celebrate their little one’s birthday.  Kids surely don’t want their special day to be less fun than their friends’ parties. Birthday parties are a very big deal.

That stray balloon made me think of my sixth birthday party.  My mother baked a cake decorated with six pink candles and sugar sprinkles.  My little sister, who was four at the time, and I patiently waited for my daddy to come home so we could have my party.  After supper, my mother sat the cake and us in the middle of the table and let my sister and I blow out the candles while they sang happy birthday to me.  She took pictures of  both of us sitting on the table, arm-in-arm, blowing out my candles and fussing over whose wish would be granted. I felt special and loved because I was the center of attention – rare for the oldest child. 

That was the same year we moved to Camille Street in Senatobia, MS.  Camille was a street filled with kids of all ages where all birthdays were celebrated with a cake, ice cream and Kool-Aid for every kid on the street who came by.  We might get a coloring book or an army man or a can of PlayDoh, but the main treat was always the birthday cake. The best part of any birthday party in the 1960’s was the cake that our moms made.  For one day during the year, the birthday kid was the most special of the Camille Street gang. 

As I got older, my parties became more elaborate.  For my 13^th birthday, I had a sleep-over at my grandmother’s house in a little country Mississippi town called Strayhorn, about 10 miles west of Senatobia.   We went to my grandmother’s house partly to get away from my sister and brothers and partly because her house was big enough to accommodate a bunch of squealing junior high girls.  Mainly we went there because my grandmother was way cooler than anybody else’s grandmother and she let me have a sleep-over.

The old house was a creepy, Victorian that was the perfect party setting for a bunch of giggling, dramatic girls. We ate all the chips and hot dogs we could hold before my grandmother brought out the cake - a gigantic store bought birthday cake with 13 candles gloriously announcing that I was finally a teenager.   

We listened to Mr. Bo Jangles (the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band version) over and over again on my new record player singing every word at the top of our voices.  We talked about boys we liked and girls we didn’t.  We talked about freezing a girl’s bra and hanging it on the light fixture or putting her hands in cold water to make her pee her pants if she dared go to sleep.

The last thing you would ever want to do at a sleepover was to go to sleep.  So, right about the time we were starting to get a little sleepy, someone - I cannot remember who – came up with a brilliant idea to keep us awake.   “Why don’t we try to raise someone from the dead?”   

Sure, why not…

We didn’t have a dead person handy, so we had to convince one of the girls that she was dead in order to raise her up.  (We had a volunteer and I won’t mention any names here because she is now perfectly alive, living a very normal life with her family.)

So, we laid out our friend in the middle of the parlor floor and proceeded to convince her that she was, in fact, dead.  In the midnight darkness the drafty old house whispered and taunted us with its creaks and groans as we gathered around the victim and commenced her “wake.”

In high pitched, dramatic voices that only 13 year old girls can muster, we went around the circle saying,   “She looks dead.”  “She feels dead”  “She acts dead”  “She IS dead!” 

And, by golly, within just a few minutes that sweet girl was good and dead.  We had to get to work raising her up.

We all gathered around our dead friend and “laid hands” on her.  We were all straight laced Baptists, Methodists and Presbyterians who had never laid hands on anyone without getting in trouble, but we had work to do. We called her forth.

“She doesn’t look dead.”  “She doesn’t feel dead.”  “She doesn’t act dead.”  “She’s not dead!”

“Rise!” we all shouted in unison.

Slowly, our dead girl started making ‘coming alive” sounds, shaking and groaning, her arms lifting up like Frankenstein.  She was coming to life!  We had convinced her she was dead and raised her up within a matter of just a few minutes.  Slowly she opened her eyes, whispering, “What happened?”  She was dizzy, weak…and, yes, yawning.  Being dead is hard on a person.

I don’t think any of us had ever been so scared in our lives. Shaking and crying (remember DRAMATIC 13 year olds), we woke up my grandmother and told her the whole story.  My grandmother – who was a special, amazing and funny woman – chastised us severely and told us to NEVER kill and raise from the dead anyone else again.  Raising folks from the dead is not your business, she told us.  She was right.

None of us went to sleep that night, not even my grandmother.  The next morning, in the light of day with biscuits baking in the oven and bacon frying in the black skillet, we were much calmer, even a little subdued.  Nobody got their bra frozen and nobody’s hands were plunged into cold water, but we sure made some memories that night that would last a lifetime for some of us. 

For the next several weeks, my birthday party was all the talk at Senatobia Junior High. Everyone wanted to be my friend and come to my next party.  Those who were there told the story so much, it had morphed into a pretty scary episode of the Twilight Zone.  I felt so special.

The next year we were all turning 14.   We were hosting boy/girl parties, kissing boys and going to the movies. We had much more exciting things to do with our time than raise a friend from the dead.

Over the years, some of us have talked about what a fun party that was. No limo rides, just carpooling to Strayhorn with our moms; no live DJ, just Mr. Bo Jangles on the record player; no high tech pizza/arcade, just hot dogs and chips. We didn’t go back with a sack full of goodies; we went home with a sack full of memories.  Oh, but how delightfully scared we were!  What trouble we could have gotten ourselves into!!   The power of suggestion is a mighty thing to a group of 13-year-old girls. 

The purple balloon followed me a ways down Robertson Rd. and when I last looked in my rearview mirror, it was floating back towards the home of the birthday girl.  My birthday wish for that child is that she makes the kind of memories that I have.   Of simple birthday parties with lifelong friends. Of fun times that require some imagination and little else. Of giggles and laughter and silliness.  And, maybe even a little fear.  Of a cherished grandmother. Of sugary birthday cakes and bright, shiny purple balloons.

Most of all, I pray that she always feels special.  Birthday special. 

These Things I Know for Sure

I have had a pretty tough time the past few years. I have lost loved ones, become a 50-something-year-old single empty-nester, changed churches, changed jobs, and learned to run a household all on my own.  Through it all, I have laughed a lot, cried a lot and learned a lot. 

I still don’t know everything, but these are the things - Life Lessons, if you will - that I now know for sure….

1.    Duct tape fixes everything. And, it now comes in pretty patterns.

2.    Everything in your house is synchronized to fall apart at the same time.

3.    As you enter into your 50’s, your horizons continue to widen…and so does your backend

4.    Nobody loves you like your mama

5.    My daddy was the most brilliant man that ever lived

6.    Contrary to my southern upbringing, I don’t have to be sweet to everyone.  And, everyone does not have to like me.  I can say what I think.  Much like a man does.

7.    To get children to listen to you, whisper

8.    To get appliance repair men to listen, bark like a big dog

9.    The best food you will ever eat, you eat at your mama’s table.  Be careful what you put on your table.  Do you want the best food your children will ever eat to be chicken nuggets and spaghetti-o’s?

10. One morning you will wake up and you will have experienced a role reversal.  Your children will be “taking care” of you. That means they will be telling you what to do.

11. I can pray for the people I love, the people I don’t much like, world peace, forgiveness, healing, grace, mercy and a good parking spot – and God blesses all my prayers

12. Simple things like watching the deer in my back yard make me as happy as a new pair of shoes

13. When you have a closet full of clothes with the price tags still on them, you got too many clothes.  YES!  I said it!  I HAVE TOO MANY CLOTHES! 

14. I don’t have to speak with a fake, slightly Northern accent to appear to be intelligent.  I can and do embrace my southerness whole heartedly and I am an intelligent, experienced, successful professional.  Dadgumit!

15. The best things I have done in my life I did not do at work.

16. I cannot always control everything. (Whew! Made me sweat to even type that!)

17. I don’t always have to win. But, I sure do like to.

18. The best antidepressant is to do something for someone else.

19. My best memories come from my hardest times.

20. Nobody can make me happy.  Only I can do that. Happiness is a choice

21. My mother lives in my head and often pops out of my mouth

22. She also lives in my mirror

23. My son is smarter than me, but I am wiser

24. I can go anywhere, be anybody and do anything.  I choose to be me right here doing what I am doing now.  That is freedom.

25. Just because you go to church with someone, or you have known someone your whole life doesn’t mean they are your friend.  You only get a couple of true-blue friends in your lifetime and they do not leave you.

26. I have no patience for stupid

27. Most times comfort trumps cute

28. I can no longer skip lunch and lose 5 pounds.

29. My happy place is my recliner on an early Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and my Yorkie, Zeke, in my lap watching Lifetime movies. I am woman enough to admit that.

30. The ocean is the best tranquilizer in the world.

31. Children do not have to be born to you to be your kids

32. All the rules you need in life are in God’s word.

33. I would give anything to spend one more hour with my daddy

34. Who you know gets you in the door; hard work keeps you there.

35. Bad deals rarely get better (Thank you, Steve Ballard)

36. Ice Cream is good for the soul.  Cookies help, too.

37. When you look at things differently, the things you look at change.

38. Live in a state of gratitude and you will be grateful for everything that comes your way.

39. The most I ever had in my life were the times I had very little.

40. Everyone needs someone they can count on.  Someone to listen, give advice, and give an opinion.  Someone who doesn’t judge you, understands you, knows who you are and loves you anyway.  Someone who makes you laugh, wipes away tears, stands up for you, and always has your back.  Someone who tells you that you are beautiful when you don’t have on make-up.  Someone who is proud of you when you do good and still proud of you when you don’t.  Someone who loves your mother even when she is driving you nuts. Someone who hugs you for no reason.  Someone who prays with you and for you. When you find that person, hold on tight and never let go. This is the most important thing I want my son to know.

 

Learning to Let Go on Camille Street

I watched a little girl learn to ride her bike on the hot pavement of Camille Street last week.  In the

shadow of the massive glittery pink helmet, I saw in her tiny bronze face wonder, pride, fear and excitement. 

During my weekly visit to my mother, I was walking to my car to fetch more grocery bags when I saw them.  Dad, his willowy frame wrapped around his little girl to make sure she was securely attached to her new princess bike.  The little girl – afraid but excited.  Determined.   “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go.”

Instantly I was transported back to another summer and another bicycle – this one red with a white basket with big yellow daisies on the front.  In the same spot on the same street in the same small hometown more than 50 years ago, another girl and another dad share this rite of passage.  I can hear this little girl say, “Don’t let go, Daddy, don’t let go!”

My dad assured me that he never would.

Camille Street, Senatobia, MS, USA.  Like many other small southern neighborhoods, Camille Street has seen many youngsters who were planted here bloom over the past half century.  The original Camille Street Gang members are now grandparents with long and rich resumes, retirement plans, nice homes and photo albums filled with lives we never thought possible during our hot summers on Camille Street in the 60’s and 70’s.

We all learned to ride our bikes on Camille Street.  No shiny helmets or knee pads for us.  We hopped on our bikes, bare footed with unprotected extremities, and never looked back. 

I sat on my mom’s front porch and watched this little girl’s story unfold - a moment in her life that she will never forget.  Precious memories layered one on top of the other to build the story of our lives.   Makes us who we are.

Dad lets go of the bubble gum colored bike.  He reaches out to steady it as it starts to slow down, wobble and then straightens up and gains speed.  He proudly watches his little girl as her tippy toes push the peddles of the bike and her tiny brown hands grip the handle bars to hold the bike steady.  Past the Copeland’s house, past the Alexander’s, almost all the way to the corner she rides.    The first of many, many times he will see her spread her wings and fly.  Sometimes she will crash and sometimes she will soar, but always he will be there to reach out and steady her. 

I go back to bringing in the groceries and I cannot stop thinking about the scene I just witnessed.  I can hardly believe it has been more than 50 years since all of the first generation Camille Street kids were learning to ride bikes, skate, swim, play baseball, drive cars and steal kisses under the big tree in the McPhail’s back yard.  I glance over at the Alexander’s house and see Charlotte and me sitting on a quilt under her shade tree making clover necklaces.  I see Ricky walking across the street to borrow an encyclopedia to do his science report.  I see Gail and Jackie walking to the community pool, flip flops flopping and bright colored towels hanging around their necks, giggling over secrets only they share.  These are the layers that build my story.

As I leave my mother’s house on Camille Street – my home for 22 years of my life -- I think of my dad.  I think of all the times he steadied my journey and pointed me in the right direction.  I realize that he did, in time, let go of my bike.

But, he never let go of me. 

 

 

 

 

Happiness is Life Set to Music

My man maid sings sweet songs on Saturday mornings.

I call him a man maid because he is a man and he is a maid – since he cleans my office and calls himself a maid, I think it is politically correct for me to call him that also. Mostly, I don’t call him anything. He is so quiet, I don’t know he is around until I hear the Tab cans rolling from my garbage can into his big black one.  He is a silent cleaner.

Jewel has the face of a buttery soft leather chair – the color of chicory coffee with a big dollop of sweet cream. A lived-in, comfortable face with wrinkles and creases in all the right places.  Crinkly brown eyes peer over the top of his wire framed glasses but quickly look away when he catches you looking at him.  In his salt & pepper, close-cropped hair, the salt-seasoned hairs far outnumber the peppered ones.  His slight frame often seems overpowered by the huge black garbage can and vacuum cleaner he pushes through the office.  Dressed in khaki pants with his shirt tail tucked in neatly, he reminds me more of a retired school teacher than a man who keeps my horribly messy office somewhat straight.  Though I have never heard him complain, I’m pretty sure he cringes at the sight of the room at the end of the hall.

Last Saturday, I came into the office to catch up on some work that I did not get to last week.  Sure, I played a little on Friday and just did not get to some of the paperwork on my desk.  I don’t usually mind coming in on a Saturday.  It is always quiet.  Phones are not ringing.  Emails not chiming.  Good time to concentrate and knock out some paperwork.  Still, it was a beautiful, sunny Saturday and I was in the office.  Feeling a little lonely and not very appreciated, I was plowing through the stuff, dividing the work into priority stacks:  To Do Now, To Do Next, Don’t Want to Do, and Ain’t Ever Going to Do.  An organized mess.  Real scientific stuff.

In the midst of all the work and self-pity, I realized quite suddenly that I was hearing music.  I stopped and listened as a rich tenor voice like brown velvet rolled gently down the hallway from the conference room to my office and brushed softly against my conscious.  Did someone leave on a radio?

There are 9 hard-working, dedicated professionals and one high-strung, loud-mouthed sales manager who work in this office.  Ringing phones, calls to meetings, visitors in and out – there is never a moment during the week when there is calmness in this place.   But today, the usually bustling office of one of the area’s largest residential building companies was silent….. A perfect backdrop for the antique gospel music that was  bathing the hallways and offices and cleansing each corner with warm words and rich notes.   Though I could not really make out the lyrics, I could hear that Jewel’s sweet song was seasoned with words like “victory” and “savior” and “praise.”

Like Zacchaeus, this wee little man is so often hidden and rarely heard; yet today his voice is covering this place like a healer’s hands covering the sick.  Without seeing his face and just from the sound of his sweet voice, I realized that Jewel is a truly happy man.   Jewel has something rare and beautiful and it is not just his lovely voice.  Pure happiness bursts from him with each note he sings.

In our smiley-faced world of happy hours, happy meals, and happily-ever-afters, so few of us are ever truly happy.  We often confuse joy or pleasure for happiness. A big hot fudge sundae makes me joyful.  A great book makes me smile.  A new pair of shoes delights me.  For a minute, an hour, sometimes a day.  But, what about the kind of happiness that flows through you and spills out all around you.  Happiness like Jewel’s.

I sat and listened and pondered.  I let Jewel’s sweet sounds wash over me like a warm spring rain.  And, I know.  Happiness doesn’t come from the things we accomplish or the stuff we accumulate.  It can’t be bought or collected.  It can be threatened but not taken away.  It can be offered but not given away. 

Denis Waitley, respected author and nationally known motivation speaker and writer describes happiness this way:

Happiness cannot be traveled to, owned, earned, worn or consumed. Happiness is the spiritual experience of living every minute with love, grace, and gratitude.

In Jewel's music I heard not only happiness, but also love and grace and gratitude.  The same things I have in my life but never take the time to sing about.

 

I straighten up my stacks of paperwork and decide to finish it on another day.  I tip-toed quietly out the back door to keep from interrupting Jewel’s happiness.  I decided that I need to tell the person I love most in the world….. “I heard sweet music today and it reminded me of you.”

Smiling, I got into my car and turned off Fox News.  And, I began to sing.

 

 

Old Things - Like Old People - Have a Story to Tell

As the daughter of a junk man, I am a devout lover of all things old.

After my daddy lost his leg to a deadly diabetic ulcer in 1985, he started his own business buying and selling antiques, collectibles, and all kinds of vintage stuff.  He spent the next 26 years of his life reinventing himself just to survive financially.  In the process, he found his true life’s passion in his little antique store, The Ole Poker, in Senatobia, MS.  He learned everything there is to know about old things – furniture, farm equipment, pottery, glassware, silver, toys – you name it and my daddy knew something about it.

Since I am my daddy’s daughter and I love whatever he loved, my fascination with old things has grown to the point of obsession.  Daddy taught me so many things about antiques – what markings to look for; how to tell a reproduction from the real thing; and that one man’s junk truly is another man’s treasure.

Most importantly, my daddy taught me to respect old things.  “If you look closely and listen carefully, old things like old people will tell you their story,” he said.

Recently, I bought an old chest of drawers to keep upstairs for summer things that I don’t hang in my closet.  Around-the-house shorts, t-shirts, swimsuits, stuff like that.  I believe the chest was made in the early 1940’s, maybe ’42.  It stands about five feet tall and is made of mahogany with a beautiful walnut banding around the middle and the original brass pulls and knobs. On the top of the chest is a small vanity mirror crowned with a decorative walnut burl.  The old mirror has no cracks or pecks, but it does have enough smoke to make it interesting. There are no wood screws or nails; the wood is dovetailed together.  The bottom four drawers are deep enough to hold every pair of shorts, every t-shirt and every swimsuit I own – which is substantial.  The top drawer runs the width of the chest, but it is shallow and divided into three sections, maybe meant for dainty undies or jewelry. I decided to put my everyday jewelry there – my watch, rings, the three bracelets I wear every day, a few pairs of earrings.

My husband, Dennis, did a little work on the drawers to make sure they slide freely and I cleaned it up with Old English – the miracle worker of the antique business.  I lined the five drawers – 4 deep ones and a smaller jewelry drawer on top - with pretty shelf paper and we hauled the chest upstairs to the guest room.

I gave the old chest one last swipe with my polishing cloth, satisfied that it is perfect for the room and headed back downstairs to finish dinner.     

A couple of days later, I was upstairs looking for shorts and a t-shirt, getting ready to go for a walk with my son, Drew.  I took off my watch, bracelets and rings and opened the top drawer of the old chest to put them in the jewelry drawer.  As I lay my stuff in the drawer and was about to slide it shut, I noticed a wonderful smell of old, rich perfume.  Startled, I looked around the room, thinking someone had come in.  I saw the old iron bed dressed in my grandmother’s chenille spread, the tapestry-covered settee against the wall, and my ironing board (this is my designated ironing room).  I guess I was thinking that I had spilled something somewhere in the house, so I didn’t think too much about it.  I closed the drawer and left the room.

The next day, I was back upstairs and opened the top drawer to retrieve a pair of earrings.  Again, my nose was filled with the sweet, heavy scent of an aged fine perfume.  I opened the drawer as far as possible and literally stuck my nose into the bottom of the drawer.  I could smell the rich, heavenly scent as strongly as if I had just poured perfume into the grain of the wood.

I sat down on the bed, amazed at this discovery.  Had someone lovingly tucked a perfumed lace hankie into this top drawer and marked it forever with the scent?  Who was she?  What was happening in her life when she did that?

Maybe she was wistfully awaiting the return of her beau from Germany, where he was bravely fighting Hitler’s Nazi’s.  Maybe she was listening to Tommy Dorsey or Glenn Miller or Duke Ellington on her record player while getting ready to go to work on the production line of the local war factory – a real life Rosie the Riveter. 

Or maybe she was a grieving mama anxiously waiting to hear from her soldier son. Maybe he was a member of the 1^st Marine division fighting in the miserable island of Okinawa, the Japanese controlled island where War Correspondent Edward R. Murrow said “the monstrous rain has turned the island into a sea of mud and gore.”  Maybe she added a perfumed sachet to the pile of letters with strange and exotic post marks from her son.  Maybe the last one arrived more than a month ago – before Okinawa.

Perhaps the beautiful old chest is not hers at all.  Maybe it is his. I see him happily jitterbugging his way around the room to the music of Benny Goodman on the old Philco as he dabs a more grease onto his slicked back hair in preparation for his date with Betty Lou.  The top drawer is where he keeps his socks ….. and the love letters from his girl, who sweetens her words with a few stolen drops from the blue bottle of her mother’s Evening in Paris.

I am brought back to 2012 by the sound of my son’s voice at the bottom of the stairs calling for me to hurry up.  I grab the first pair of earrings I see, take a final sniff of the lovely scent and gently push the drawer closed. 

My old, worn chest of drawers does, indeed, have a story to tell and I enjoy hearing it every time I open the top drawer.  Isn’t it so wonderful that the things you love the most – your grandmother’s quilt, made from scraps of familiar material; your mother’s rolling pin that flattened out many a breakfast biscuit; your dad’s pipe – from which you can still smell his brand of tobacco ---  all tell the treasured tales of lives lived. A life well lived always leaves little pieces behind for the generations that follow. Like my dad, I take the time to study old things, listening and looking for their stories.  And, they always make me happy.

I hope that one day, many years from now, someone picks up a piece of my old Fenton art glass or one of my vintage tablecloths to spread over my 1959 Formica and chrome kitchen dinette table. And, when they do I hope that they stop a minute, look closely and listen carefully.

 I hope they hear my story and I hope it makes them smile.