Saturday, February 18, 2012
Stolen Word
8:25 PM | 
Posted by
Cheryl |
Snap by Snap has always been about photos and the stories they tell. I love the story this photo tells. Even though my mother has been gone 41 years, her daughters are still talking about her, piecing together bits of information about her life. Photos, a ring, a locket, a doll, a sewing machine, a diploma: The photos always tell the best stories. It makes me wonder what small parts of my life will remain 40 years after I'm gone and what they will say about me.
I found one small part of my early life in my wanderings today, and it made me smile. It's a Bible - and I have a few of those. Some belonged to my mother, my father, or were favorites of mine at various points in my life. But this particular Bible is the one I stole.
I was probably 10 or 11 - not much younger than my mom in the picture above - and like a lot of kids whose parents are leaders in the church, I spent a lot of time wandering the building, waiting for meetings to get over with. Our church building at that time was a cool old building with three stories, long halls of polished wood floors, creaky theater seats, and a basement whose columns had been marked near the ceiling to show how high the water reached in the flood of '38. There was a lot to explore there. I found the lost and found that day, and it was full (of course) of lost Bibles. Bored, I began looking through them and stopped in my tracks as I found a familiar name in one of them.
This was during the period where I was afraid of forgetting my mother, and I was desperate for things that would help me remember her. And there on the page was her name. I closed the Bible, and took it home. When I got home, I scribbled out the name of the person to whom it had been presented. My internal Jiminy Cricket was practically shouting in my ear how wrong I was, but I could not tear myself away from that Bible. In my childish mind it represented a part of her. A moment in her life that was somehow now mine. It was the beginning of my small and unimpressive life of crime.
And here I am, so many years later, mostly reformed from my wild child ways, but I still have that contraband Bible. Why did I keep it? So many other old Bibles have been donated or given away, but this one remains on my bookshelf. I guess it still reminds me of that moment when I felt I'd gotten part of her back in some small way. Stolen and forbidden as it was, it was mine. Losing a person leaves such a gaping wound in our lives, and it takes time for grief to weave scar tissue over the gash and for our breathing to slowly regain its rhythm. Memories and momentos make it easier.
I've said it before in this blog - We are made for connection. In its absence we seek substitutes. I think that's why I love photos. I love seeing faces long remembered - eyes sparkling off the paper, proof to hearts that we remember. Having the photos preserves moments in our lives and theirs, and moves us past the pain of the separation to the memory of the life.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
The Past on My Doorstep
6:18 AM |
Posted by
Cheryl |
I arrived home last week to find a mystery box with my name on it. It was from my sister Debbie, but she hadn't said a word about sending anything. I opened the box and found myself looking into a distantly familiar face.
I have previously written about my mom's story when I started this blog in 2009, but visiting her life again through the contents of this box I am especially struck by her resiliency. She was determined to go to school, graduating from Long Beach Junior College at 21, and later finishing her four year degree at the University of Southern California at 24. When my father met her several years later, he found her still living at home, trapped in a family that depended on her for cooking, cleaning, and general maid service. He told me once that she seemed to live the life of a Cinderella, and he desperately wanted to rescue her. They married, and her new life as wife, mother, and registered nurse began. Finally, she had a family of her own.
At the bottom of the box were the funeral announcements, and the guestbook from her funeral. She was 48 years and 10 months old when she died. I was nine. Knowing that my mom suffered a difficult childhood, and witnessing her prolonged battle with cancer and early death - I have often thought of her as a somewhat tragic figure. And yet when I see her determined face and direct eyes in the picture below, I wonder.
As soon as her green eyes opened, I was 11 years old again, standing in my parent's garage on a dusty summer afternoon. A box was opened, and a baby doll I had never seen before was lifted out. I can't remember who it was in the garage with me that day, but remember being told that it was my mom's doll from her childhood. My mom had been gone for a few years, but like any child I was momentarily surprised at the thought that my mom had a childhood.
Somehow this doll, with her handmade dress and well loved features made me wonder about the person my mother might have been growing up. The three year old suffering from rickets, given to another family (not adopted) to raise. The young girl leaving friends in Redfield, Iowa and moving to a new life in Long Beach, CA. The young teen struggling to care for younger siblings, and the high school senior who must have been shaken to discover that she did not really belong to the family she grew up with.
My mother's doll has lain in storage, her eyes closed, for decades. But when those green eyes fly open, it is hard to imagine that they don't have a story to tell. Did she once comfort a small girl in a new home? Did small arms carry and comfort her? Did my mother's green eyes look seriously into her doll's green eyes and tell her secrets? Did my mother's rough stitches make her simple yellow dress? At the very least, she was a close enough friend to be saved as a memento of a childhood that did not boast many other treasures.
The box held so many clues to my mom's personality - playful, goofy pictures of her with nursing school friends, inside jokes between classmates, letters. She was known for being good at math, but deferred when people mentioned to it. People remembered her smile, and commented on it when they wrote to her. The clues point to a determined, intelligent, kind, and playful young woman.
At the bottom of the box were the funeral announcements, and the guestbook from her funeral. She was 48 years and 10 months old when she died. I was nine. Knowing that my mom suffered a difficult childhood, and witnessing her prolonged battle with cancer and early death - I have often thought of her as a somewhat tragic figure. And yet when I see her determined face and direct eyes in the picture below, I wonder.
At 50, I am now older than my mom was at her death. We four "kids" now range in age from 50 to 63. I see her legacy in us - resilient, intelligent, determined, and playful. Maybe that's why, when I picked the doll up out of the box and her eyes opened, I almost thought I saw a flicker of recognition in those green eyes . . .
Left to right: Debbie, Cheryl, Ed (Gary's partner), Gary, and Cindy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
My Blog List
-
What a day! Our new and improved PLAN for attacking New York began at a bus stop right in front of our hotel. For under $4 per person, we were delivered wi...
-
Each year I encourage the C3 class to commit to reading the Bible through in a calendar year. Committing to daily reading of God's word greatly enriches yo...
-
We are home again. After sleeping 10 hours, I woke to find Mark in the living room watching Geronimo starring Matt Damon, filmed in Monument Valley, of...
-
3752 miles later, we're home. The last two days of driving were a little long, but worth it. We listened to Harry Potter 4 on the way there, and Harry Pott...
-
-
