Tag: memories

What Are My Treasures?

Note from Mom

When my mother died, my father gave me her Hope Chest.  Hope Chests used to be a tradition in families.  Each girl in the family earned money to buy or was gifted a wooden Hope Chest.  The chests had a lock and key and were used for storing what would be needed when she got married and set up her own home

My mother’s Hope Chest is mahogany veneer set in a checker board design from the 1930’s Deco period.  I’ve loved it – even in its unfinished state (my husband tried to repair some scratched veneer and had to give up when it didn’t meet his perfectionist standards.).  When my Mom was a teenager, she put her “treasures” in this chest – treasures that she made lovingly to use when she and her beloved were married:  embroidered linen dishtowels with fanciful animal designs and hearts, embroidered double sheet sets and pillowcases with her monogram, a simple cotton tablecloth and two blankets bought by her parents for her Hope Chest.  And eventually at her bridal shower she received things that could go straight into the chest for her wedding that summer of 1947.  None of these things were still in the Hope Chest when I received it.  They had been made to be used and were used during Mom’s and Dad’s 60+ years of marriage.

I had a fleeting thought this morning, though: what treasures I would save in this old Chest?  Not for setting up housekeeping.  Rather for keepsakes I might want to pass on.  I renamed the Hope Chest my Treasures Chest.  It is small in size so it wouldn’t hold much. What would I deem my few precious keepsakes?  What holds precious memories for me?  

One thing I would put in my Treasures Chest would be the box of genealogy documents that I found among my Dad’s things. Dad was keen on such records and they have fascinated me with our documented ties to Jane Fonda’s family, and the royal Stuart line, and family connections in the US starting in Massachusetts’ Bay Colony and today extending west to Washington state and north to Canada.  So that is a keeper.  

Dad gave me a necklace awhile ago that he purchased as a boy for his mother on Mother’s Day.  It took sacrifice and saving up for him to buy it and it is precious to me.  It isn’t valuable monetarily, but it means the world to me and when I wear it I feel loved.  I have always treasured jewelry that was worn by those I love.  I believe that some energy or matter is exchanged between things worn and the life spirit of the wearer so that when I put a ring or necklace on that belonged to a loved one I feel closer to the person it belonged to.  I also have my great grandmother’s wedding ring and my mother’s engagement ring – those will be in my Treasure Chest.  

There’s a family quilt with flying geese design made of chambray, denim and shirting scraps that signal its origin in the early 20th century or perhaps earlier.  That will definitely go in my Treasures Chest. Many a relative (and myself) found warmth and comfort under that quilt . . . another treasure.  

Perhaps copies of this blog would be among the treasures.  I would like my thoughts and musings to be read – perhaps savored – by some curious family member in the future.  Maybe it would be an inspiration to someone else to write their thoughts and share them.

What I am realizing as I think about what my treasures are, there are some that won’t go in the box.  They are ephemeral things like the sound of my mother’s voice or the color of the sky – the bluest blue – on Sept. 11.  The comfort and love I felt holding my newborn baby daughter. 

Treasures I can remember but not save for others.  And perhaps it is better that way.  I will have my memories with me as long as my memory holds.  And as I remember these lovely life-giving moments I am filled with warmth and connection to those who people my memories.  And that is what I treasure.

Boxes

A couple of weeks ago I was sorting through one of the many boxes from our basement shelves. The object is to sort and discard what is no longer usable or needed so that we can live a bit lighter. Some of our boxes (blush!) have not been opened since we moved to Memphis, hurriedly packing in less than a month. That was 2005, almost 15 years ago.

Sorting through these things was my intention as soon as I retired. Life happened, though, and I am beginning that project now.

As I opened this first box, loose photos and a few written bits met my gaze. As I sat that afternoon and the next, I entered a mostly forgotten time in my life when I was a young, newly minted PhD and mother of a pre-teen. We (my husband, daughter, and me) lived in a house we were gutting and rebuilding for open space living. Pictures showed a progression from bare bricks and studs that we lived with for a time, then wallboard and spackling, naked windows morphing into curtained beauties, a kitchen that was not functional for cooking for 9 months (amazing what you can do with a microwave and the bathroom sink . . . ). I remembered the endless time line of renovations done almost entirely by my husband while he was employed fulltime.

Pictures emerged from the box of our daughter in middle school — awkward but sweet — and cards for Mothers Days and tales of summer camp (“Hi, Mom and Dad, I fell out of the top bunk last night. We’re going swimming today! I really like my friend, Ginny . . . “).

I had forgotten the lushness of my gardens there so long ago. Roses and irises and zinnia’s and many others. Our magnolia trees whose blooms so lush and pink we could see from our bed in the spring. Family events, familiar places, people who surrounded us with warmth and friendship.

So many memories . . . and emotions. I loved that time of my life. It was a golden time — at least in my memory. It is easy to forget the teen and mom struggles, the work conflicts, lack of sleep when working full time and trying to complete a PhD program. Nonetheless, looking at these images of time past I got weepy and for that week, I felt on the edge of tears — grieving the loss of that younger me and wishing I could re-live that time and perhaps live it differently with some different choices.

I sound like Emily in Thornton Wilder’s Our Town. It is one of my favorite pieces of literature and very wasted on eighth graders who can have little lived experience of the preciousness of life. At least I didn’t appreciate it when it was assigned in middle school. But having read and reread it many times since — such precious wisdom it offers.

“Does anyone ever appreciate life while they live it?”

I am grateful that I saved those photos and that I opened that box to let so many memories tumble out. Today I will start the next box, not knowing what it will offer, yet willing — eager — to let the memories come — even if there are tears that are also there.

Reconnecting with Heart and Hand(written)

My handwriting has gotten a bit more messy and angular over the years. My hands are increasingly arthritic and stiff and have begun to look like my mother’s. For this reason, I often choose to write emails, notes, reports (and this blog!) on my laptop. In this season of retirement, I am embarking on a project that I have not made time for until now. For as long as I am able, I am bent on handwriting notes and letters of gratitude to persons who have touched my life.

Now, understand that I type well and my speed on my laptop is excellent. I can capture most of my thoughts when I type. However, when I handwrite letters something different and lovely happens . . . there is an emotional experience to the writing. As ink meets paper, memories of shared times and treasured conversations often arise. And the writing of a letter becomes a time of intimate reconnection rather than simple words on paper.

In retirement, one of my intentions is to reconnect with people who were once in my life and who touched me in some way. I have frequently let time carry me past relationships into some different stage of life without acknowledging the way those relationships have touched me and formed me. I know that many of us could say the same thing. I am blessed, though, with this time of my life in which I have more opportunity for reflection and for searching out where the angels in my past have got up to. Some have moved on to be part of the “cloud of witnesses” that I wholeheartedly believe continue relationships with us when they die, and currently surround us with encouragement and guidance. Those who are still alive and kicking I will try to find and reconnect with in notes written in my messy and angular hand. And I will savor the memories such writing brings and hope that they will touch the heart of the other.

Airplane — 38 years ago

I just read a post on my Facebook stream that Airplane (the movie) was released 38 years ago.  What memories that brought back.  Bittersweet and yet not sad.

Thirty-eight years ago, my then husband Ken Williams and I had fled to the shore to spend a long weekend in Ocean City at a borrowed house belonging to friends who wanted to offer us a bit of comfort after a huge shock.  I had sat in a doctor’s office with Ken just 3 days before and heard what no one wants or expects to hear . . . a diagnosis of late stage cancer.  It was called non-Hodgkins lymphoma — a cancer that these days is serious but considered more of a chronic condition than a terminal one.  But in those days, there were far fewer effective treatments and the doc struggled to tell us that Ken might have 3 months to live and would need to begin treatment in the hospital immediately.

We bargained with the doc (and, I suppose, with fate) and asked for one week of reprieve.  We had been married just over one year, and were trying to get pregnant, but treatment (if Ken survived) would make him infertile.  The doc said one week would not make a difference, but  to be sure it wasn’t longer.

So, we ended up in Ocean City.  Our time together was not only to try (futilely, it turned out) to get pregnant, but also to savor our last few days together before entering the world of chemo, radiation, and hospitals.  It was time tinged with knowledge of what we were facing, but holding each other, not letting go of each other’s hands as we walked, trying to hide tears from each other — all this was important and, in a sense, offering whatever balm was possible at such times.

So the second night we were at Ocean City we walked the boardwalk, one of Ken’s favorite things.  We passed the lone theater which was advertising Airplane.  It had been overcast all day — that grey sky dark with ominous heavy curtains of clouds just waiting to drop their payload of rain.  As we passed the marquee, the sky opened and rain fell with ferocity.   We stood under the marquee, then I suggested maybe seeing this movie — I had not seen ads for it and had no idea what it was.  I just wanted a distraction.

What a wonderful serendipitous opportunity it was.  We sat in the theater, almost the only patrons, and laughted until tears came.  These were not the tears of sadness, though, but of unbridled laughter.  For 90 minutes, our fears and grief were lightened and less present as we watched the screen.

At the end of 5 days, we returned to our home in Mt. Pocono and Ken entered St. Luke’s Hospital in Bethlehem — a 50 minute ride from home and the closest cancer treatment center at the time.  But our time in Ocean City was marked by that movie — we found we could laugh and find joy even in the midst of tragedy and threat.  That experience has never been forgotten.  Thirty-eight years ago today . . . like it was yesterday.

Jane+