an ordinary day

It was your average Saturday afternoon. While the entire red and black world hunkered down a few miles up the road in Sanford Stadium with the Dawgs, my son Ty and I took advantage of the lull in 441 traffic to hit the neighborhood Publix. Cupboards were bare, and the boys trembled at the fact of no homemade cookies.

Ty on his 22nd birthday in 2011.

I'm not sure how the conversation meandered into an emotional realm, but we were remembering. Remembering days that were not so good, struggles that were way too hard, and memories that burned holes way too deeply. And then, as I often do, I skimmed over my role in history, regretted some of my choices and wished I had done things differently - a sentiment most parents share.

Then, from out of the blue, with no warning, he said, "Mom, you are amazing."

It shook me to the core and proof quickly slipped from the corner of my eye. That 23-year-old man driving his papa's Ford F150 would always be that mischievous kid in whitey-tighties covered in red Georgia clay, prancing around in his semi-birthday suit, slinging a garden hose in his front yard, but today, he had managed to reach into his heart to assemble the perfect phrase. And he didn't stop. "You really are. You are amazing. Look at everything you've done. Everything you've achieved, teaching and writing. You are an incredible writer. I can't write like that and you play the piano. I love to hear you play."

Yikes! Did I hear right? For most of my life, I had longed to hear words of praise from the three people that mattered most in the world. Just acknowledge me, please, is all I ask. Let me know you know me. Come to find out, they did.

My reason for breathing: Logan, Mari, Len and Ty.

This was a reflection on who I was as a human, a woman, not simply as a mother or cookie maker. All those day-to-day processes were more than cliche. They watched me make those PB&Js and realized my fingers only worked so fast. They eyed me in my classroom and accepted the fact that, second to them, there was no place that I'd rather be. They listened to my rare tunes plunked out on my daddy's old upright piano and heard my lonely melody.  They cried with me as we walked away from dark yesterday into a phantom tomorrow. They understood my desire to be better that day than I was the day before.They didn't judge when I fell short or when life got in the way. Well, maybe for a moment, but as the entire picture unfolded, they recognized that mom was one that never stopped dreaming - for them or for herself. Most of the time, I thought they were too busy being kids, too caught up with Power Rangers or tennis tournaments, too occupied with their place in the universe to realize that my grown-up world ran simultaneously alongside theirs.

I was validated! I like to think Ty cast the ballot for the absentees, and I pray they get me. I guess the more important musing is - I get me. After Ty's disclosure, I started mentally listing my accomplishments and was rather amazed. I recognize and salute these in other people. Why can't I dare to do the same in the mirror? I suppose its a hodgepodge of being Southern, a woman, an only child, a perfectionist, a creative, a dreamer, a romantic - the list is tiring. The list is me. A damn good me.

So I'm taking this amazing, damn good me on the road setting more goals and scaling more rainbows.  I'm planning my upcoming itinerary, and I'm excited. Most of all, I'm thankful I have excellent company along the way. 

Lessons from the Attic

The attic is a scary place where boxes turn in to headless monsters devouring once empty space. And inside those monsters, well, that can be equally daunting. Once you move past the aged smell of something that has been sealed for far too long and the massive amount of black (and white I have discovered) mouse droppings, it's all downhill.

There's endless quantities of outdated clothes, unused kitchen utensils, unopened (regrettable) gifts, worn-out shoes, discarded computer equipment, dead TVs, packaged Christmas decorations, busted lamps, unnecessary nick-knacks, and more and more of the same. Most you fly right by, but there are some objects that require a closer look.
 
I can't begin to explain how many Hallmark cards can fit into a box about waist high. I believe Veta (Len's mom) kept them in business. Whether it was the sending or the receiving, she did her part in establishing Hallmark as a billion dollar enterprise. It may appear to be just paper, but you have to attach humans to these mailings.  Think of those who sent the cards - how they perused the aisle in the grocery store, reading card after card until the right one made them smile. Jackpot! And then, days later, Veta, sitting in her green Lazy Boy, going through the mail, finding a colored envelope and realizing it wasn't a bill. With her trusty letter opener, she slit open the envelope and then magic, a smile from ear to ear. Thoughts from far away! No matter if the occasion was a birthday, a holiday or even a death, a smile was there because someone cared enough to send a card. Not an email, a hand-written card.

And in the old steam truck of mom's, one single greeting card that stood out from all the others: the first Valentine from what would turn out to be one of many during a very long, love affair.  He only signed his name, Kimsey, and added no thoughts or phrases. His name was enough. I wonder how many times she read the card while tracing the imprint of his name with the tips of her fingers. Ah, the romantic in me!

When you least expect it, you will find treasures wrapped securely in 1980s newspaper pages. There's the Drag-ula car made by my husband for his pine-wood derby years ago. Wrapped securely in browned paper, hours and hours of work lay in my palm. Before I even knew he existed, he carved it with his hands and crafted it with his heart. Then, there's the SoSewSoldier sewing kit that belonged to Neil, Len's father. He carried this government-issued necessity to France, through Belgium and then home again during WWII. Both will have a new home, free of stuffy air.

Finally, I'm going through a heaping box of towels, dishcloths and crocheted throws and stumble upon a beautiful blush linen tablecloth, complete with eight matching napkins - still in its original box, unused with creases still crisp. As with all things cotton packed away, a wash is required. As I'm tossing the tablecloth in the washer, I read the tag: Made Right in America. Not Made in America, but Made Right in America. Pride jumped off the tag and smacked me in the face. I don't recall seeing that wording ever. I'm sure that in 2011, those aren't the words added to tags on linens or toys or computers or anything else for that matter.

There are lessons to be learned from the attic. Mice can get into any box, I don't care how secure you think it is. Most of us have way too much stuff. Those clothes you wouldn't wear in the 70s will NOT come back in style and even if they did, you wouldn't or couldn't wear them then so you won't wear them now, so get rid of them. Dead TVs and computers are just that, dead. And, when you dig through the clutter, there are gems of lasting worth that must be saved. There are stories of accomplishments and failure, of loneliness and hope, of holidays and dreams - magical seconds of a lifetime made concrete by materials stored in an attic.