Day 56: Sunday Roasts, Broken Cameras, and the Stuff We Leave Behind.
It’s a snowy Sonday morning and I am spending it with two of my grandsons, who were still tired and sleepy-eyed when I arrived. It’s their mama’s Sunday to work at the hospital and their daddy had church meetings, so, lucky me got to spend an early morning with them. It’s these precious snuggly moments in life that make it worthwhile. When my son returned, he asked for a lesson on Sunday roast, so I talked him through the steps - the very same steps my mom and dad talked me through when I started cooking Sunday roasts for my own family thirty years ago. There was something special about it all.
Since my husband’s mom, the last of our parents, passed away last fall, we have been making trips to Idaho to sort their earthly possessions. It’s a terribly difficult thing to do. Many of the items hold a story that we know, but many of the items have been saved for decades, and we do not know why. One of the items is a small wooden box. It sat on a shelf in a basement storage room. I’d seen it many times, but I never asked what it was, or whose it was. It is one of the things my husband brought home to our house. I’ve studied the tiny dove-tailed joints and brass hinges. I’m sure there’s a story there, but I do not know what it is, and I probably never will.
Why do we keep the things we do? My mother was good at telling stories. She was also very good at leaving notes with items, explaining their importance, and I’m grateful for them, because I ran out of time to ask her questions. And now my husband has run out of time to ask his mother questions.
In April of 1996, my mom fell and broke her leg. It required surgery, and we gathered at the hospital to meet her in recovery. My third child had just turned one year old, and I sat her in the hospital bed next to my mom and leaned over the back of the headboard so my dad could take a three generation photo. Little did I know, a month later my mom would be gone from this earth. As we gathered for the funeral planning, I asked my dad if I could take his film to be developed so I could have the photo, and he began to cry. He explained that the camera had broken and the film was ruined. Compared to losing my mom, it didn’t seem like a big deal, and since nothing could be done, I let it drop. Except, I couldn’t. I replayed that moment in her hospital bed for months. I imagined what the photo looked like. I so wanted a tangible thing I could hold in my hands to show my daughter the day she snuggled up against my darling mom.
What are the things we will leave behind? None of us know when our opportunity to explain or teach or share will end.
That is why I’m writing these silly company towels posts. It certainly isn’t to see if I can post something on social media every day. It’s my way of handing down my mother to my children and my grandchildren. It’s a way for them to get to know all the splendid things about her. It’s a way for them to recognize traits they may have inherited from her. The only way. My mom handed down some lovely things to me, rich in tradition and meaning, but if I don’t explain those traditions and meanings to my kids before I’m gone, those lovely things become knick knacks that they’ll come home to sort through, and wonder why we saved.
Maybe at the end of the year, I’ll compile these posts and give them to my mother’s posterity, in case the camera breaks, or the internet ceases to exist, and if you come to my house and see notes tucked beneath the knick knacks, you’ll know the reason why. I’m trying to explain the importance of the stuff I’ll leave behind. #MomsCompanyTowels #Sundayroastsbrokencamerasandthestuffweleavebehind #Dontdelay
Comments