My mother taught me to have respect for old things. She taught me that their age didn't automatically make them junk. She would routinely hand me an old item and tell me to imagine it, brand new, in someone else's hands--someone who saw the item as a new-fangled invention capable of saving time and easing a workload. The process taught me to appreciate antique stores and salvage yards and dusty attics. It also makes me look at the things I use now and wonder what they'll look like to younger folks 50 years down the road.
Mom never pointed it out, but I found that her process for gaining an appreciation of objects worked for humans, as well. All it takes is imagining a person's innate worth and infinite possibility, to see the truth of it in their eyes.
My mother passed away from this world 25 years ago today. She was 69 years old. I was 31. I had two rowdy little boys and a one-year-old girl, a busy husband, and a full-time job. We were wrangling children and dealing with daycare and up to our chins in the messiness of life. I had always known I wouldn't have my mother forever. I had always made an effort to learn from her, to take advantage of her advice and insight. At least I thought I had. But in the last 25 years, not a day has gone by that I haven't had the inclination to call her and ask her questions. Not a single day.
Those days have piled up a mountain of questions left unanswered. A mountain that could make me bitter and disillusioned, if I let it. But my mother taught me that regrets would get me nowhere, and that every day could be great, if I would only work to make it happen. She was one of those people who, at first glance, appeared to be a sick and weary farm wife, but when you looked into her eyes and listened to her words, it was easy to evaluate her infinite worth, more valuable than the rarest of antiques.
In retrospect, the last 25 years have flown by, but day by day, they sometimes dragged, weighted by the pressures of life. Twenty-five years is a long time to miss someone, but here and there, along life's path, I find she has left me with little bits of wisdom for the way. The uncharted territory of 2020 was a new experience for everybody on Planet Earth. Multiple times a day I thought of questions I would've asked my mother if I could have. I wondered if she could've helped me understand the uncertainty, grief, and discord of the year. Even though she wasn't there for discussion, I found that it helped me to go back to her process and imagine the potential of people.
A dear friend had found a 1909 Underwood 4 typewriter for me, and when home isolation became the norm, I turned my efforts to that typewriter. When I worked on its intricate mechanics I felt my mom pointing out how amazing it must have been for the first person who first sat the heavy contraption on their desk, rolled a clean sheet of paper beneath the bale, and tapped each key, relishing in the wonder of modern machinery.
The refurbishment of the typewriter took some time. I had to research how it was done before I could begin. Even though I was isolated in my home, I met a very nice Etsy shop owner in the Netherlands who made new water decals for me. I met a very nice shop owner in Bremerton, Oregon, who went into his shop (it was closed because it was deemed 'non-essential') and sent me the carriage strap and ribbon I needed, and who said, "If it's what you need, just send me a check when you can." I didn't need to look these people in the eyes to know of their infinite worth. Treasures, both.
I was supposed to be finishing/publishing the first book in my new series last year. Instead, I was using carbeurator cleaner on an ancient typewriter. It stunk up the whole yard. My very clean and orderly husband got really tired of the table of typewriter parts strewn across the table in the garage. It took a year, but I finally finished the typewriter, and when it was done, do you know what I discovered? I'd spent hours ruminating on my story while I worked. I delved into the characters and their back stories. So much so, that the darn typewriter seeped right inside and is now part of the plot. I also discovered that when I was able to block out the loudness of 2020, the ensuing quiet time was filled with the presence of my mom, overseeing the job.
Yes, these 25 years without her have left behind a mountain of unanswered questions, but I'm grateful for the memory of her infinite worth in my life.
The typewriter is as refurbished as I can make it, but there's one little glitch. It only types with the caps lock on, so as I typed this anniversary message to my mom, it felt a little like both the typewriter and I were yelling . . .
IT IS A PRIVILEGE TO MISS YOU, MOM. THANKS FOR OVERSEEING THE JOB.
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