Saturday, April 9, 2016
When I was sorting out saved stuff in my closet, I came across several items loosely wrapped in a piece of tissue paper, itself saved from a long ago gift. I held the bits and pieces in my hand and realized they made a collage, a portrayal of my emotions and mixed feelings about leaving this home and this part of my life. There were pieces of a lovely painted glass globe a friend gave us many years ago that was a tiny painting of the lovely old East Texas Victorian house we bought and moved to for a far too short time. During the months we were there, I researched and wrote the history of the place, submitted it to the historical society, and received a State historical marker - not for me, for the house. In a later time, the pretty piece was knocked from its stand, leaving only shattered pieces which I kept.
There were some pieces of filigree silver jewelry from our time in Indonesia, all tarnished and worn. There was a tiny safety pin with beads strung on it, one of the many "friendship pins" that our youngest son and his friend exchanged in first grade, when we lived in yet another place. And there was a piece of foil where that same son had written "To Mom, Love Ben." I do not remember what it was attached to, but I kept the crumpled paper with his writing during his college days. All these were folded in the wrinkled tissue printed with the name of shop where it was used to wrap a purchase: Things Remembered. I decided I would keep my little packet but I really do not need these reminders. They are indeed, "Things Remembered."
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
My youngest son, Ben, was game to help me pry out over 200 nails from the seat of the chair and scrub it down to get rid of the insect homes and cobwebs. I had never done caning, but I ordered a piece of cane webbing, spline, chisels and glue which cost more than the chair had. We soaked the webbing, pounded the spline into the groove of the shaped seat and watched in amazement as it all dried and began to tighten to make a new seat. We got more white paint on us than on the chair, but began to feel a sense of pride as this beautiful Victorian rocker emerged to take its place in our new old home. When I rock a grandchild in it or tuck a pillow in its seat, I still have a sense of all the stories it could tell me. One story would be that of a rescue.