The Second Hand Shop

Note:  This is a Days of Grey writing exercise.


This photo comes from brandoncwarren on Flickr through a Attribution-NonCommercial Creative Commons license. If you repost/reshare this image with your response, please keep this attribution intact. http://www.flickr.com/photos/brandoncwarren/3850756797/

The mental list of things to look for in the second-hand shop is short these days, but more fun than it was when my kids were at home.  I walk through my favorite thrift stores looking for things to stir my memory.  Today there is no milk glass to catch my eye, but an old radio jumps out at me.  I remember listening to Gunsmoke with Dad on an old radio, though not like this one. Mom and I listened to baseball games on the radio together.

There was a time when I kept a tape measure in my purse to make sure that furniture I found would fit in a certain location in my home.  I knew which shop had a boat load of National Geographic magazines for a dime to help the kids with school reports, and which one had the best children's clothing, and where to go for the never ending need for bookcases.

As I wander down the aisle today, I see things that I would not have passed up five years ago.  Suddenly, they are unimportant to my life.  Maybe I'll buy this radio just for the memory.  No, that would be silly.  I'm much to practical for that, but I think I'll stand here for just another moment or two.  I wonder if the shop down the street has milk glass today?  Or maybe NASA memorabilia for my daughter?  I suppose I should pick up a couple extra little toys for Granny's toy box.  The grand kids are getting a little bored with the current selection.

It's so peaceful this trip to the thrift store.  When did that happen?  There are no children under foot, and I don't hear cries for lunch.  The old days were fun, and I'm sure that eventually I'll miss them.  Today, though, is too soon.  For now I'll relish in the peace from being recently childless.

Carpet Swirls

 Note:  This is another writing exercise for Days of Grey.


The picture comes from arenamontanus of Flickr via a Creative Commons attribution license.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/arenamontanus/3406321153/ If you reshare/repost this image, please keep the attribution intact.

As I gaze at the swirls in the carpet, memory flashes to a different time, a different place.  Time stops as faces, colors, and feelings wash over me.  The carpet swirls today are golden earth tones, but long ago they were pink. I close my eyes and feel the rough fibers on fingers of long ago.  I hear laughter of those who were much older than me, and I see siblings and cousins roughhousing and giggling.  Someone is playing chopsticks on the old piano. Funny, I don't ever remember anyone really playing that piano, but maybe that's because there were always so many of us when we were there.

Mystery envelopes this house, as this is where my father lived as a child.  I can't picture my father as a child, but I know he must have been one.  He must have been an old child, with an old soul -- but a happy one.

With eyes still closed tight, I'm suddenly very warm -- overly warm.  I remember always being hot in that room long ago where we gathered too many bodies in small quarters.  My mind takes me outside the old house where a cool spring breeze ruffles my hair on the screened in front porch where my father slept, even on snowy winter nights.  I wish I had known him then.

I hear stories and laughter.  I wish I had paid more attention to the stories of long ago, but then again, I wouldn't be able to separate truth from fiction.  Fish stories were prevalent in that old home.

My name is called, and I jump.  As suddenly as old sensations flooded my world, they are gone.

The Teapot

I can't look at a teapot without remembering the smell of firewood, hearing the crackling of a wood stove, and feeling a chill in the air.

My grandfather built a little one-room cabin in the mountains where his grandchildren could play in the summer.  Evenings were often chilly.  Mom would delegate one of us to bring in a supply of wood from the wood pile, and she would light the wood stove. The wood stove heated the water in the water tank, but it was a small tank and there were always lots of children to bathe.  So the old silver teapot sat on the back of the wood stove to heat water to put in the washtub to bathe children.

Mom was very modest, so a shower curtain was carefully hung around the washtub.  I hated that shower curtain.  There is nothing as shocking to the system as the wind whipping a cold wet piece of plastic against your backside.

Babies were bathed in the kitchen sink with nice warm water.  My father loved to watch babies get bathed.  He would turn on the cold water faucet to barely a drip and watch the babies play with that cold water drip.  He would chuckle and giggle, and the babies loved it.

I can still see the flicker of the fire on the wall of the cabin.  The walls were rough unfinished boards.  I can hear the roar of the fire in my ears.  I can hear Mom saying, "Somebody better go put the water pipe back in the water box before this water heater is a missile."  My grandfather built his own water system with a box in the creek (or "crick") that had screens filtering the water.  It was pure genius except the deer often pulled the water pipe out of the box as they crossed the "crick."  If there wasn't water flowing into the water heater, then the wood stove was making it's own bomb. Countless times I put my boots on, grabbed a flashlight, and headed for the water box to shove the pipe back in the box.

Bath time was always the prelude for our nightly game of hearts. No one plays hearts dirtier than my family!  Laughter echoed through the canyon often until way past all our bedtimes.  We taught my little sister how to play solitaire when she was about four years old so that she wouldn't be in our hair for the heart games.

All those memories--and more--flash through my head at the sight of a teapot.  Teapots are a warm reminder of a very lovely childhood.

Aromatic Memories

Margaret and Dick Janes

Few things muster childhood memories like the smell of a good roast saturated deep with garlic.  This evening I put a roast and potatoes in the oven, charging my husband with keeping an eye on things while I took a short snooze in my chair.  I awoke to an aroma which permeated every square inch of our home.  In my groggy state, I was immediately taken to a time long ago when my mother concocted delightful meals from her kitchen as I watched icicles form outside the living room window.

Mom was a good cook.  There was nothing gourmet or exotic about her cooking, but she had a knack for taking the simplest meal and making it delectable.  Dad sold meat for Swift & Company for many years, and he did the grocery shopping.  Long after he changed careers, he used his knowledge of meat and his natural thriftiness to find the most flavorful cuts of meat at really good prices.  They were quite a team, Mom and Dad.

As I sat in my chair collecting my senses, feeling the warmth of the oven fill our previously chilly home, I could almost hear the laughter coming from Mom's kitchen of long ago.  Tennis balls bounced down the long hallway for the dog to chase.  Business decisions were discussed.  Teasing was a constant.  Music was never far away.  TV westerns were never ending.  Political discussions became teaching opportunities.  All this seemed to be done with garlic wafting through the air.  Money was never plentiful in my parents' home, but Mom could make anything she cooked smell like a piece of heaven!

I'm warm tonight.  My home is warm from the additional heat of the oven, yes, but it has more to do with the warmth being generated from my soul.  I was so blessed to have loving parents who provided me with an environment where I could thrive.  I'm blessed that I can still vividly feel that love slash through time itself.  I'm grateful for that nap in my chair, and for slowly coming to a conscious state while feeling that love once again.

What Will They Remember?



My grandchildren after a day in the dirt
Top step, Left to Right:  Jocelyn, Michael, Kaitlyn
Bottom Step, Left to Right, Joey, Ella, Haley

This past weekend we had a family event (missionary farewell for my daughter who will be serving an LDS mission in Brazil), and my kids and grand kids were here.  As these six darling little grandchildren played together as cousins, it brought back memories of my own cousins, and visits with my grandparents.

I remember visiting Nana and Pa in Carson City, Nevada.  There was a clothesline in the back yard.  It was a square clothesline on a rotating pole.  We had a great time hanging from a rope as one of the cousins twirled the clothesline around like a merry-go-round.  In the front yard, there were bushes that had hard little gray berries that were great for throwing at each other.  Inside was a staircase with a long banister to slide down.  One of the upstairs bedrooms had a slanting ceiling that always fascinated me.  I loved to lay on the bed and look at the ceiling.  I remember sitting with Pa at the kitchen table and discussing very important stuff that little kids talk to their grandparents about.  Pa had a cookie jar that he would fill and wait for us to steal his cookies.  He introduced me to gingersnaps.

Visiting Nana Janes in Portola, California was fun too.  I remember looking at the patterns in the carpet in her living room.  All the cousins looked for money that my father apparently hid in a secret place in his old room when he was a kid, but to my knowledge, nobody ever struck gold.  I startled Nana Janes one time when she was getting dressed in the morning, and her facial expression is forever etched in my memory.  I remember Nana Janes organizing family reunions in Portola park.

I remember making mud pies and picking berries with cousin Valerie.  I remember swimming in Portola Municipal swimming pool with cousins Debbie, Dennis, and Paula.  I had nightmares for years after Debbie, Dennis, and Paula let me watch the movie "The Tingler" with them.  I remember cousin Jim at the family cabin playing (and cheating) at cards with us -- and I remember him laughing.  I rode cousin Lana's horse.

I watched my grandchildren play together this weekend and wondered what they will remember about these visits together.  Will they remember playing in the dirt?  Will they remember swinging in the old swing hanging from the end of the clothesline?  Will they remember asking Granny how to "glue" bricks together?  Will they remember Granny explaining mortar and cement?  Will they remember taking spoons to the yard and Granny making them count how many they took out and how many they brought back in?  What about Haley's imaginary apple tree?  Will she remember gathering Grandpa's gently placed apple at the bottom of the stick she stuck in the ground every time she came to Grandpa's house?  Will they remember how much fun they had with their cousins running from monsters in the back yard?  Will Jocelyn remember taking ice from the ice chest in the kitchen when we weren't looking and making a lake in the kitchen floor?  Will they remember sitting on Granny's lap for a story?  Or will they remember things that I haven't even thought about?

Whatever the memories of tomorrow are, I hope they are good ones.  I've certainly enjoyed watching them make their memories!

Independence Days Gone By



My grandson, Michael, a couple of years ago

Happy Independence Day everyone!  I was just sitting here going down memory lane.  I was thinking about family traditions my family had when I was a kid.

Mom and Dad always talked with us about what the 4th of July meant.  If we were in Reno, we would go to the drive-in and watch a movie because when the city fireworks show began, we had a perfect view behind the movie screen.

Personal fireworks are illegal in Nevada, so I didn't even know what that was until I was an adult and moved to Sacramento and saw the crazy Californians trying to blow each other up.

If we were at the cabin for the holiday, we would make signs that said "honk for freedom," and sit on the edge of the highway and wave to people as they honked.  At night, we would bang pots and pans together for noisemakers, make smores, and blow bubbles in the meadow.

Fun times!

Have a safe and lovely 4th of July!

Eggceptional Eggspertise

Dad and Hannah

Dad loved to dye Easter eggs.  I don't know why, but he did.  In fact, he loved it so much that he would dye the same egg over and over again.  Most kids gather brightly colored Easter eggs in their baskets -- you know, pink, blue, orange, yellow, green.  We gathered khaki colored eggs on Easter morning.  Dad dyed them carefully in one color at a time, over and over again, until they were the ugliest eggs on the planet.  But he had SUCH a good time doing it!  We loved dying eggs with Dad, and so did his grandchildren!  I'll always think of you, Dad, as I dye my eggs each year.  Love you, and miss you!

Patterns

Sometime during my first grade year, I spent some time with Nana Janes in Portola, California. Nana was not staying at her home that week; she was taking care of the Knotty Pine Motel for a friend who was on vacation. The lobby of this place was knotty pine, and was gorgeous! I've loved knotty pine ever since, and have dreamed of buidling a knotty pine bedroom.















(Picture from here: http://www.redcrestresort.com/-- my favorite getaway spot.)

Nana Janes was an early riser, and she didn't realize that I also arose with the sun. She was very prim and proper. She woke up early in the morning so that she could dress in front of a wood stove to keep warm. The first morning I was there I startled her when I caught her dressing in front of the wood stove. I continued to wake up early every morning that week, but Nana was always dressed. She must have set an alarm prior to sunrise the rest of the week to get some privacy.

I remember Nana's hands. There were patterns in the lines on her hands. I remember wanting to take a crayon and connect some of the lines to see if I could make a picture--but I didn't dare ask her.

Years later I looked at my Dad's hands and saw those same patterns. I remember thinking that it must be "a Janes thing." The other day I found myself staring at my own hands at those same patterns. What I used to think was a fascinating jigsaw puzzle, turns out to be "old" skin. There's nothing intriguing about it at all. I don't mind having "old" skin; I've earned every wrinkle and every gray hair. I do find disappointment in this little discovery, however. I'm not sure why, but something I thought was "special" about my family just bit the dust.

Early morning seminary for me (and later my children) spoiled the fun of getting up early in the morning. Dragging myself out of bed is the norm these days. I'd better not build the knotty pine bedroom I've always wanted to build after all. Maybe it wouldn't be as "special" as the memory.

Dream Snippets

My dreams are crazy when I'm ill. Most of them don't make any sense, but sometimes my dreams consist of snippets from the past. I'm not feeling well today, and have been doing a lot of sleeping. I just dreamed about some things that I did with my kids and the Camp Fire Boys & Girls. It was like reminiscing by dream, and actually quite pleasant. Some of those snippets in time follow.

I spread a clean white sheet on the living room floor. An extension cord was placed on the hot air popcorn popper, and it was placed in the middle of the sheet. I left the lid off the popper, gathered the kids around the popper in a circle--not too close so they didn't get hit with flying hot kernels. We let the popcorn explode all over the living room onto the white sheet and then ate the popcorn right off the floor.

Each spring the kids couldn't wait for the annual shave cream party. As soon as it was reasonably warm outside, we would gather the kids around the picnic table in the backyard. A blob of shave cream was placed in front of each child. The idea originally was to finger paint in the shave cream--but that never happened. It was much more fun to have a shave cream fight. When they were all covered with shave cream from head to toe, I'd grab the hose and hose them all down. Then one by one they were allowed to go back in the house and put on my old maternity smocks and Danny's old shirts. I sent their wet clothes home in plastic bags.

We were at Camp Fire camp (Camp Minaluta) one spring. One of the activities was to make masks of the kids' faces. One of the kids put plaster all over her face, but something went awry, and when the plaster dried it didn't come off like it was supposed to. I thought we were going to have to cut her out of the mask! The poor kid was more than a little frightened. In my dream I saw the panic in her eyes all over again.

The kids all loved to go canoeing in the lake at Camp Minaluta. The problem is that their fearless leader (me) was short, chubby, and prone to getting leg cramps. On one particular outing in the lake, the kids were having so much fun that they didn't want to go back to the dock for a long time. I didn't realize that my legs had fallen asleep. When we finally docked the canoe, the kids all jumped out and went all different directions, leaving the Camp Fire staff to try to get me and my heavy hiking boots out of the canoe. I think it would have been easier to dump the canoe upside down and let me swim to the surface!

I need to sleep some more. To sleep, perchance to dream.