The Pieces of our Lives

I have been spending time with my dear parents these last few weeks. They are hoping to move at some point in the not so distant future. For many reasons, they needed help getting started sorting through things in their house. I have only been able to make a small dent, but anything is progress.

Today, I loaded up the van with about 17 boxes of books. Hmmmmmm....I must have inherited my love of books from them. There are more books that need to leave, but they have another destination. The books today each had to travel in my arms up a flight of stairs and across the yard before they reached the van. I then drove them about 30 minutes to a place which might only be a lay over.

It has been an interesting experience going through things. I find myself chuckling to myself as I am reminded of people and events in my life. As mom and I sorted through the many books, she told me stories here and there. As I tried to make dad's workbench less chaotic and I found little items that just reminded me so much of my dad.

Boxes of bows, decorations, puzzles, photos, and little doodads belonged to my mother. She has always had a well decorated home. I don't know how I could be her daughter. I only decorate at Christmas. My mother has decorations for each season of the year. She has always been kind and generous and a package is not wrapped if it does not have a bow. In my house, there are rarely bows -- especially on the gifts that I give. But I am very sentimental. Just like my mom.

Music, books, tools, loose change, projects, flashlights, and tiny religious books found in nooks and crannies of drawers reflect my father. He was the boy scout that I don't think ever grew up. He always loved woodworking and craft projects and there were treasures that any boy would love to be found almost anywhere you looked. In my head, I hear the Baritone of my father's voice and the mellow sound of his trombone. To this day, when my Ski plays his Jackie Gleason, the sobbing trombone makes me think of my dear father.

I always thought that my dad was the coolest guy. It's funny. He reminds me a great deal of my dh. And even more, I see so much of my dad in myself. He is so mischievous and when I find myself pestering my kids, it is sometimes like an echo of my father's voice.

I have seen this week the games I played as a child, the plates I ate from on family camping trips, really neat scrapbooks that I had never seen before. I've used the pots and pans that my mother bought from her uncle many years ago. And those pots are still wonderful. I wish I could find some just like them.

While many of this will not be claimed by family members, these items are not merely things, but moments of our lives. They are gifts given and received, souvenirs from trips and reflections of long hard times of work. It is so funny to me that when I look at a item from our vacation to Florida, I can smell how our closed up house smelled upon our return. As I look at recipes, I can taste my grandmother's cookies and I can smell her pantry. And every time I walk down my parents' walk, I wonder if I will remember it years from now. For even now, I remember how I used to ride my cousin's bike when we stayed at my Grandmother's house. I would follow the paths through her front yard and as it wound its way around to the back and then into the side alley. I wish that I could give all of these memories to my children. I wish that I could look at everything here and sit and tell my children all of the stories in my head.

Every time I come back here, I feel this countryside pull my heart. I don't think I will ever live here again, but as I drove through the rolling hills and curvy roads this afternoon, I once again felt a longing not to leave. There is something for me about seeing a buggy pass buy, the smell of a cow pasture, rows of corn, and those old farmhouses that makes me a little homesick.

But my experiences here have made me feel like one of mom's puzzles. Every piece seems to have different things going on. Together it makes a sometime messy, sometimes crazy, sometimes beautiful, and sometimes serene scenery. But the pieces, no matter how fragmented make up a complete picture. And so, while these things do not make us and while there are many moments in our lives that seem like clutter, the experiences we have make us as individual as we can be and without them, we would not be the same.