Nostalgia

The Scraps of Life

Jeanna G5 Comments

Under my bed is a dusty storage bin filled with a bunch of things I can’t seem to let go of. I always thought I needed to save certain things, but I’m not entirely sure why. My parents saved a bunch of my things when I was young, like my report cards and Christmas cards from my grandparents, ticket stubs and blankie scraps, and about twenty paintings from Kindergarten…all of rainbows. So maybe they kick-started the idea. But I suppose I’m a bit sentimental, too. I have my yearbooks and varsity letters, the first rose, albeit dried, from my high school sweetheart, newspaper clippings, photos, button pins, letters from friends, family, and former students…all fragments of a whole, the pieces I choose to cling to, the parts of me that I want to continue to be.

My daughter also holds on to stuff, and in an effort to contain it, I suggested that she also start a memorabilia box. Maybe it’s a family tradition? We’ve decided to put a scrapbook together to include all of her certificates and class photos and drawings.

I don’t really save any new stuff for me anymore, except my photo books. Now I save scraps of stuff for my daughter, like my parents did for me. I’ve kept a clipping from her first hair cut, a clay mold of her infant-sized hand and a mitten that used to fit that tiny hand, an ink stamp of her newborn feet, and her sonogram photos. I also have a baby book, that I over-filled out, and I’ve been keeping a journal about things that have gone on since I knew I was pregnant with her.

Why do I keep these things? For validation? Proof that I lived? Proof that I had a good and meaningful life? And what about her stuff? Evidence that she had a good life…thanks to her mom? Clearly, considering the theme of my blog, remembering my past, remembering who I was and where I came from, is important to me. And I think it should be equally important to my daughter. At least, I hope it is.

I think remembering where we came from is what creates our life map; it directs our future. It reminds us of what we’re capable of, and what we truly love and value.

Based on what my parents saved, I imagine they wanted me to know how smart and artistic I was, as well as how optimistic and loved I was… and am. I save my favorite paintings by my daughter, as well. Her imagination is wild and her vision is clear.

I keep thinking I should sift through my box and toss stuff out. After all it’s just a bunch of leftovers, scraps to box up. But maybe instead of boxing it up or tossing it out, I should display it. Why not have a constant reminder, or motivation, to be someone that I love?

Halcyon Days of Summer

Jeanna GLeave a comment 
School’s out 
Freedom rings 
What does this season bring?

Hide the alarm clock
Skip some rocks 
Blast some cannonballs off the dock

Bare feet stained by cool, soft grass 
Bare bottoms skinny dip 
Was that a bass?

Fishing, bike rides, river wades
Berry picking and lemonade 
 
Sandy toes, ocean waves
Skin kissed by the sun

Cookouts, picnics
Thwack!
Around the bases we run

Family trips to the reservoir 
Tents, campfires, sticky s’mores 

Summer camp, all new friends, promises to write 
Crickets sing a lullaby that ushers in the night 

Shooting stars
Ice cream treats 
Let’s drift to dreams on line-dried sheets

Don’t Tell Mom!

Jeanna GLeave a comment

Growing up in a full house meant chaos and mayhem more often than not. Things would get broken: dishes, toys, and body parts. Things would get hidden: those things we broke, bad grades, and beer. Things would get lost: pets and children. Things would get faked: innocence and parent signatures. But no matter what happened, someone would yell, “Don’t tell mom!”

With so many kids, there was usually a witness, which therefore led to some leverage, blackmail, or payback. But sometimes you were lucky enough to do something stupid without anyone watching.

I think I was somewhere around 7 or 8 years old when I decided to pick up my brother’s BB gun. (Also embedded here is a good lesson in gun safety.) I had seen my brothers shooting at a paper target out in the yard that was secured to a blanket which was draped over some wood. They carried it into the shed, and left it there…with the gun. The loaded gun. The loaded gun with the safety off. I knew better than to look down the barrel, at least. So I made the swift decision to pick up the gun, aim it at the target that was a mere six feet in front of me, and shoot off a round. As soon as my finger flexed I had the following senses: I heard the BB hit the target, I felt the BB fly through the hair hanging alongside my neck, then I tasted fear as I saw in my mind’s eye my mother coming at me with her wooden spoon because she’s mad I have no common sense. But then I came to my senses and realized she hadn’t seen a thing. I was one lucky son of a gun.

So that was my secret…’til now. Every year I’d watch A Christmas Story and silently nod in agreement when everyone yelled at Ralphie that he would shoot his eye out. But guess what Santa brought my daughter this year? You guessed it. An official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle. And she loves it. She knocked a can over in the yard on her second shot.

Sharp Shooter

Of course I’ve learned a few things about gun safety, and other stuff, since I was her age. But I definitely still do dumb things. And I never want my mom to know about them. But now that I’m a mom I understand that unconditional love means that no matter what your child does, even it’s the dumbest shit you’ve ever seen, you’ll love her. And even though you might cringe hearing about all the ways your progeny ain’t no prodigy, you want to hear about it anyway. After all, you can’t cover it up if you don’t know about it.