Tag Archives: Honoring memories

Vacation Memories

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            Before the software existed that allow us to import photos and add written descriptions, cataloguing vacation photos was often inconsistently done. Sometimes pictures would be sealed under a thin clear film with no words to show where there were taken or even who was in them.

            After too many page turnings, the adhesive would fail and the photos would slip out.

            The glue would yellow, leaching into the pictures, fading out faces and places alike.

            Even so, I’d hang on to the albums, for they were what connected me to that past.

            After a while, however, I’d quit looking at the albums. Work and parenting demands took center court, chewing up time that I used to spend reminiscing.

            When our kids grew up, we handed over their albums, a passing of memories, so to speak. None of them seemed overjoyed at the prospect of storing those aged tomes. I have a feeling that they all ended up in the garbage. But that’s okay.

            These days I import photos into online albums, clustering them by place and theme. I research descriptions of where I’d been, so as to ensure that my information is accurate.

            When finished, all I have to do is click a button, pay over money, and then within a few weeks a glossy keepsake arrives in the mail.

            We do pull out the first albums as they remind us of the trips we’ve been on, the places we’ve visited and the things we saw.

            Initially I only took photos of “things,” never us. But then I read somewhere that our kids and grandkids need to see us as we were then, not necessarily as we are now.

            This is especially true as my husband and I quickly approach eighty.

            The first commercially prepared album was done in our sixties. We looked very different then. Both of us carried quite a bit more weight. Our hair still had some original color to it and my husband’s covered a tad more of his scalp.

            Our clothes were looser, to cover our bellies, sort of.

            We had to ask someone to take our picture if we wanted one with the two of us. Otherwise, my husband would be in two or three, me in one. I liked taking his pictures and hated the way I looked in mine.

            As time passed, we show up together in more and more albums. We got brave enough to ask for help and got less embarrassed about how we looked.

            The photos were seldom good. They might be off-kilter or out-of-focus. They might have been in shadow or in light so bright that the sun glinted in my glasses. There might be deep shadows obliterating half our faces. The background that we’d chosen might not be visible.

            So many things can go wrong!

            But, now when I create albums, we’re there, standing next to penguins in the Falkland Islands, pretending to ride a camel in Morocco, leaning against the railing of the ship at a particularly lovely port.

            I am glad that we decided to take more pictures of us. I want our family to see us, at this age, going places and doing things. Enjoying life, to the best of our ability. Eating fine meals, getting dressed for dinner, wearing sun hats to protect our faces.

            These are the important memories, not just the ones of ancient Mesa cliff dwellings or unusual rock formations or penguins dashing into the water.

            Perhaps no one in our family will want the albums, but for now, they are a living legend of who we are, where we’ve been and what we looked like at the time of that voyage. They’ll look at those pictures and remember that we walked among penguins, saw a snake charmer in Fez, and watched glaciers cave in Alaska.

My Story

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            The concluding song in the musical Hamilton asks the question, who will tell my story. It got me to thinking about my own story. Certainly, my grown children know me, at last the mother-me that raised them. But do they truly know the adult me that I am now?

            In recent years our oldest son has been including tidbits of praise for who we are and what we have done over our lives. He praises us for being active, for traveling and doing things even as we age. His words touch me where it brings tears and feelings of joy.

            But I wasn’t just a mother. I was a wife, a teacher, an administrator, a writer, a friend and a person who kept busy doing a variety of things. I belong to three writers’ groups and two book clubs. I hike with a friend two days a week. I love movies and the theater. I love how technology has opened my world.

            I am a sucker for sad animal videos. If I had given a dollar to every charity that featured beaten and starved animals in their ads, I’d be broke.

            Books call my name. I will never have the time to read every book in my pile, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting more.

            While I am not into fashion, I love to shop for clothes especially after losing eighty pounds. Certain textures and styles speak my name. Colors and patterns as well. If after buying and wearing something it doesn’t make me feel good, then I put it in a giveaway bag.

            I won’t wear torn or stained clothing. That’s because of my younger years when all I had were old clothes an aunt had given my mom.

            I love spending time with friends. Going for a walk or eating out makes me very happy. While I am more of a listener than a talker, hearing someone else’s story keeps me connected to their lives. That means a lot to me.

            When I do get to spend time with my kids, I don’t have to do fancy things. I am content being in their presence. I love sharing a meal with them, strolling through a fair or even a big-box store, taking dogs for a walk, watching their favorite shows or sports teams. Seeing the responsible adults that they have become fills me with joy.

            As a teacher I worked hard. I’d visit my classroom on weekends to change bulletin boards, grade writing journals, correct spelling workbooks and rewrap books whose covers had torn. Before the year began, I’d hit every sale and buy all the supplies my students would need for the year. Even when money was tight, I’d spend mine to make sure my students didn’t have to go without.

            In my early years of teaching, I had to wear conservatively-styled dresses. I was a large woman and found it difficult to find anything in a store, so I made my own. I also sewed my kids’ shorts and a suit for my husband.

            I overcame my years growing up in a dysfunctional and overly critical family. I fought against the stereotypes that women couldn’t study college-level math. I persisted when others gave up.

            Understanding the learning never ended, I returned to college over and over, all in the hopes of increasing my ability to better serve the needs of my students.

            Recently a friend told me that she chooses to focus on the positive things that had happened to her. That simple comment made me reexamine how I remembered my early years. Perhaps instead of focusing on how I was mistreated and misunderstood by my parents, I should recall family trips to a cabin by a lake, playing badminton in the backyard,  eating my mom’s apple dumplings and building tents in the family room with my brother.

            It’s easy to talk about the beatings and foul words directed my way, harder to search for the happy days that I’d conveniently pushed into the back.

            This is my story. This is how I want to be remembered. I just hope that someone will be kind enough to share it after I am gone.

Bringing Christmas Home

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Stan Ellis stuffed the last of his purchases into his camper shell.  Smiling proudly, he strode to the driver’s door, unlocked it, and climbed behind the wheel.  The engine started immediately, and so after giving it an extra shot of gas, Stan threw the truck into reverse.

Careful not to hit anyone, he backed out of his spot.  He cranked up the volume on his favorite country station just in time to hear a Christmas tune by George Strait.  Smiling, Stan sang along, tapping his hands on the wheel to the rollicking beat.

On Main Street he merged into the slow-moving traffic.  It seemed as if the whole town was out shopping.  With just three days before Christmas, it came as no surprise.  Stan didn’t care how long it took to get through town, as he was full of the holiday spirit.  He was going to give his grandpa a special Christmas surprise.

It had been many years since they had decorated the house.  His grandmother loved to hang lights, put ornaments on the tree, and bake cookies that filled the house with the sweet smell of vanilla.  Christmas music soared throughout the house, his grandma’s golden voice blending with the singers on her favorite records.

Every meal was special, with at least one holiday favorite on the table: stuffing with raisins, carrots covered with a glaze, ham and pineapple, sweet potatoes drowning in a marshmallow topping.

After her death, Grandpa refused to celebrate.  No decorations were permitted, no music, no special foods.  It was hard on Stan, for he loved Christmas.  He missed the gaily-decorated packages, the tinsel on the tree, and the joyous feeling that permeated life day and night.  Among his friends, he was the only one who did not celebrate the holidays.  Sometimes one of them invited him over during winter break, and Stan would drop in for a brief visit, but each time his soul sank like a rock in water.

Determined to bring cheer into their lives, Stan had driven into town.  The ads shouted deep discounts on everything needed to brighten a home. He never knew there were so many kinds of lights, nor variety of ornaments.  He was surprised that garland came in the form of plastic candy canes, neon M & M’s and strings of imitation popcorn.  Looking for the sales, Stan chose the best items.

Home Depot had a few trees left, so Stan bought one of them as well.  It wasn’t as much fun as climbing the hills on the ranch and cutting down a live tree, but he made the most of the experience.  He remembered that Grandpa loved Noble firs, elegant with their evenly spaced branches, so that’s what he got.

Once home, Stan took the tree to the barn, got down a saw and cut off a good chunk of the trunk.  He removed the lowest branches to prevent them from dragging on the hard wood floor.  The trunk fit perfectly into the new, sturdy stand.  With pride he carried the tree into the house.

His grandmother placed the tree in the front window so that the lights could be seen shining on the darkest of nights.  To her, they were a beacon, calling her family home.  Wanting to recreate the last Christmas he recalled, Stan would have to move a lamp and table that sat in the designated spot.  He carried them upstairs, into an unused bedroom, and then returned to move the tree into place.

Keeping an eye on the time, for his grandfather was expected back before dinner, Stan carried in his bags of decorations.  He opened boxes of lights and strung them on the tree, around the windows, and over the mantle.  He hung ornaments, strategically placing them so as to balance color and design.  Garland went on last, a sparkling silver stole gracing the tree.

One box left.  Stan opened the lid and pulled out a figurine.  He gently unwrapped the Virgin Mary.  Next Joseph and the Baby Jesus, followed by Wise men, a shepherd, two sheep, a donkey, and a cow.  Lastly the crèche, a wooden structure with hay glued to the roof.

Stan staged the scene on the credenza in the front room.    He kept out Baby Jesus, just as his grandmother did when he was young.

Brushing off his hands, he admired his work.  Bursts of color filled the room, and the smell of pine tree tingled his nose.  The crèche filled his eyes with unexpected tears.  For some reason, Stan felt compelled to fall to his knees.

He gave thanks for his grandfather who loved him, his girlfriend, his teachers, and his life.  Stan crossed himself, as taught, then stood in time to hear his grandfather’s truck rumble up the road.

He went outside to help carry in the groceries that would be in the back.

“How did it go, Grandpa?  Were you the high bidder on the stallion?”

“Naw.  Josiah Turner beat me by fifty bucks.  I did get a pretty filly, though.  She’ll produce beautiful colts when mated with Silk.”

Both men grabbed handfuls of bags.  Walking side by side they strode up the wide steps and onto the porch.

“What the heck have you done, boy?”

Stan fought hard to hold back a grin.  “I thought it was time that we got back to celebrating Christmas.”

“Take it down!  Take it all down!” Grandpa dropped his bags and literally ran down the steps, across the yard, and into the barn.

Disappointed, Stan carried put the groceries away.  He turned on the radio, and after finding a station that played Christmas music, prepared dinner.  He peeled, sliced and fried potatoes, browned a couple of pork chops, opened a jar of applesauce and placed it on the table, all the while singing along to joyous tunes.  When everything was ready, Stan opened the back door and rang the bell, the call to dinner.  He stared at the barn, hoping to see his grandfather emerge.

When the door did not open, Stan sat at the table.  He said grace and then dished out his meal.  He ate alone, the only other voice that of the radio commentator.   When finished, he cleaned up.  Leftovers went into the fridge, pots and pans scrubbed, rinsed, and dried.

Heartbroken, Stan stepped into the front room to enjoy the bright lights by himself.  He walked over to the tree and fingered the needles.  He loved the firm, rubbery feel.

“Watcha doing, boy?”

Stan’s heart flew into this throat.  Turning, he saw his grandfather’s figure seated in a recliner on the far side of the room, half-hidden in darkness.  “I…I was just checking to see if it needed more water.”

“Have a seat.  We need to talk.”

Stan sat on the floor at his grandfather’s feet.  This is where he always sat when there was a story to be told.

“Do you know why I was angry?”

“I think so.  You miss Grandma.  So do I.  I miss her terribly.  But we have to live, Grandpa.  She wouldn’t like us to live in sadness.”

“You should have asked me first, Stan.  That’s why I was angry.”

“You wouldn’t have let me go shopping.”

“You’re right about that.  That’s not what made me angry, though.  It’s the shock of seeing all this.”  His hand swept around the room, indicating the tree, crèche, and lights.  “Your grandmother was a very religious person.  She loved Christmas, as it made her feel close to God.  She worked hard to bring His love into our lives.  Nightingale was my Christmas gift, the best one I ever got.  There is no way that Christmas will ever be the same without her.”

“I know that, but I miss the lights.  Can’t we enjoy Christmas like everyone else does?”  Stan’s tear-filled eyes reflected the disappointment that was dragging him down.

“I don’t know, boy.  I just don’t know.  Looking at all this makes me miss her all the more.  Can you understand that?”

Stan’s chin hit his chest and sobs shook his shoulders.  His large, calloused hands covered his face.  “I’m sorry, Grandpa.  I’ll take it all down,” he said as he wiped the tears away with the tail of his gray flannel shirt.

“No. Let it be,” his grandpa said as he strode into the kitchen.

Stan moved into the newly vacated chair.  He looked at the tree with its lights, ornaments, and garland.  Nothing seemed as beautiful as it had earlier.  In fact, it all seemed garish, even the cheap wood crèche with its plaster figurines. What was I thinking?

While Christmas tunes continued to float through the house, they didn’t seem so gay anymore.  The words spoke of gifts, Santa, snowmen, and kissing under the mistletoe.  There was little mention of the Christ child or of God’s love for His people.  Christ is missing.  That’s what’s wrong.  That’s why Grandpa’s upset.

Stan stood, walked over to the tree, and pulled the plug.  He turned off the stereo.  An eerie stillness came over the house.  I’ll take it down in the morning, Stan told himself as he climbed the stairs to his bedroom.

Sleep did not come easy.  Most of the night Stan’s eyes stared at the darkened ceiling.  Memories of his grandmother came unbidden. Even the smiling faces of his parents, dead for many years now, floated in a mist-like cloud above his bed.

When dawn turned the sky a dusty gray, Stan arose and dressed. He walked to the head of the stairs and stopped.  What the heck?  Stan’s eyes opened dinner-plate wide, for before him was an amazing sight.

Teddy bears covered every flat surface.  Tinsel dangled from ropes of garland that stretched from one side of the room to the other.  A toddler-sized Santa and sleigh sat near the door, and a Rudolph with blinking nose stood guard.  Stan’s crèche was gone, and in its place sat a hand-carved Nativity scene, created by his grandfather, long ago, as a gift for his grandmother.  On one wall hung a tree-filled picture frame that his grandmother had filled with old jewelry that she had gathered from relatives.

Dazed, Stan slowly went down the stairs.  His store-bought ornaments were gone.  In their place hung homemade ones.  He fingered lace snowflakes, felt stockings, cloth-covered Styrofoam balls, reindeer made from clothespins.  Everything was beautiful.  Everything was just as he remembered.

Even though he knew his grandfather was in the room, Stan did not turn to face him, for embarrassing tears poured down his face.  “It’s wonderful, Grandpa.  Why did you do this?”

“To make you happy, boy.  While I ate my dinner last night, all I thought of was that unhappy face of yours.”

“Thanks, Grandpa.  This means a lot to me,” Stan said as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

“Next time you get an idea to surprise me, will you talk to me first?”

“Yes.  I promise,” he said.  Stan stood behind his grandfather and draped his right arm over his shoulders.

“I used to love Christmas, too,” his grandfather said.  “Nightingale filled the days with so much love that her happiness filled me as well.  When she died, I thought I would never feel that way again.  I swore that no Christmas decorations would ever come in this house again, to protect and honor her memory.  It wasn’t fair to you, Stan.”

Stan patted the muscle-bound shoulders of his grandfather.

“When I saw the tree, my heart broke into a thousand pieces.  The only thought that came to mind was to run away and hide.  Then I snuck inside while you ate.  Looking at the tree reminded me of Nightingale.  After you went to bed I did some thinking.  That’s when it came to me.  I’ve been wrong all these years.   I wasn’t honoring your grandmother’s memory at all.  She would have wanted us to continue her traditions.  So I went out to the barn and got out her things.  It’s funny, but as I unpacked the old decorations, I felt as if Nightingale was helping me.  I swear I even heard her singing.”

Stan planted a kiss on his grandfather’s rough cheek.  “That’s the way I felt.  It was as if Grandma was with me at the store, helping me decide what to buy.  All I wanted was to bring Christmas back into the house.  I’ve missed it, Grandpa.”

“So have I, boy.  So have I.”

Stan sat in the chair that used to be his grandmother’s and watched, with his grandfather, as the rising sun filled the sky with a golden color.  There was no more need for words.