Where Are Your Fingerprints?

These photos are of the paperback book "Exodus" by Leon Uris. Published in 1958 by Bantam, it belonged to my mother before I did, as I didn't snuggle in her arms until 1960.

I cannot guess the number of times Mama read this book. You can see in the pictures that it is dog-eared and torn, the binding taped and glued multiple times.  She put it in my hands when I turned 13 and I, too, have read and re-read this book.

My daughter noticed "Exodus" on my shelf and wondered why I didn't replace it with a sturdier hardback. After all, it is falling apart. Even the decades-old tape meant to hold it together is discolored and useless to its purpose. The pages are yellowed. It even smells old.

I will keep it forever.

Mama loved this book. Her long-fingered hands, so skilled on a piano and organ, held it and turned the pages. Her green eyes with their flecks of gold  read these printed words---these printed words, not the same words printed elsewhere.  She carried it in her purse, in the car, and passed hours engrossed in its pages. It sat on her bookshelf through my childhood and beyond.  It is part of her in ways nothing else can claim.

I have other things, of course, that were my mother's---her piano, jewelry, notes she wrote. I even kept the silly straw hat she wore to St. George Island on our last vacation together before her death. Treasures all. So what is it about this old book that matters so much? Why is this falling-apart mess of glue and paper and ink so symbolic? Are not her fingerprints and DNA on all those other things, too?

I feel close to Mama when I hold this book. It is a treasure because I deem it so, and if it only matters to me, well, that is enough.

What treasures do you hold dear that defy the understanding of others?  Do you believe that things such as this carry the imprint of someone even after the person is gone?

Where are your fingerprints?

Til next time -
Lisa

P.S.  Don't forget Book Blurb Friday!  Scroll down a couple posts or click on the designated tab above, just under the header.  See you then!

Happy Anniversary September 1st!

The post below is a repeat of the posting for September 1st 2009.  I've changed a couple of things to accommodate the passing of another year, but otherwise this is a re-run. It remains relevant for me, so I'd like to request your indulgence on the repeat, just this once.  Thanks.

Once upon a time and long ago, on the 1st of September, there was a restaurant and lounge in Merrimack, New Hampshire called The Village Squire. Mama and Daddy took me there for dinner—our standing Friday night date—and we three made a pact: no matter where the years might lead us, September 1st would be our anniversary. We would meet for dinner every September 1st, we promised, no matter what. I still have the red matchbook bearing the restaurant logo. When I flip the cover I see the date, written in the sloping cursive of my 17-year-old self: September 1, 1978.

This, the 1st of September 2010, marks the 32nd anniversary of that dinner. I wish I could remember details about that night, but in typical teenage fashion I took for granted the hours spent. If I could live it again I would take photos and write a detailed journal; I would make note of the menu and the waiter’s name and the topics of conversation. I would memorize every sound, color, and scent; every bit of laughter and nuance of conversation. I would savor those things which, in my youth, I could not imagine ever being without.

I remember snippets, such as Daddy wearing a tweed sport coat and Mama’s charm bracelet jangling. Daddy drank a vodka martini with extra olives and Mama ordered scotch and water on the rocks (with a lemon twist). Before dinner drinks were sipped, not slurped, and dinner—seafood, I think—lasted for a couple of hours, not a couple of minutes. There were white linen tablecloths and I sat next to Mama in the booth with Daddy across from us. It sounds formal, but it was very casual, and we were silly and laughed a lot. I had just graduated from high school the June before, so I imagine we discussed my plans to attend the University of Las Vegas in the spring. Daddy was a philosopher at heart, so the conversation may have veered toward lofty things. God help me, I cannot remember. I want so much to remember.

Subsequent Septembers came and went, and for a few years we celebrated on the first day of the month to honor our pledge. But our pact gave way to life—marriage and babies and moves and illness and death. Before Mama and Daddy died we rarely forgot our special day and, over the telephone and the separation of a thousand miles, we would share a glass of wine to commemorate that first dinner.

I pray that right now my parents are together holding hands on a heavenly beach, watching over me and calling out, “Happy anniversary, Snowflake!” And in their honor I lift my wine glass and say, “Happy September 1st to the best parents God created. I will love you forever and miss you always, and I hope I’ve made you proud.”

Love,
Snowflake

One Happy Mama!

My son, Joey, lives in Florida.  He is 7-9 hours away, depending on who is behind the wheel (7 for him, 9 for us old baggers). Close enough for a long weekend visit, too far for a day trip.  The consequence is that we enjoy his company only a handful of times a year, and only for a few days at a time.

This weekend was one of those handfuls. I'll call it a bouquet of offspring instead, because another benefit of Joey's visits is family time.  Having all three of my offspring in the same place at the same time doesn't happen very often these days, so when it does I'm one happy mama.  I've been grinning all weekend!

Last evening, after a wonderful day spent boating, tubing and swimming at the lake, we ate dinner at our favorite family restaurant.  We have been dining there as a unit for almost two decades. If the place ever closes down I'll need therapy and psychotropic drugs to cope with the loss. The above photo was taken last night as we left the restaurant.

Joey headed back to Florida this morning, and I performed the mommy ritual of fighting back tears while waving goodbye and trying not to make him feel guilty for growing up and flying away. Why should I be unhappy, after all, when he has successfully accomplished that for which his dad and I prepared him?

I've been sitting here thinking about the weekend and how blessed we were to have our kids together, laughing and teasing and having fun; how blessed we are just to have our kids.

Gotta tell you, buttercup, I'm one happy mama!

Til next time -
Lisa

Sea of Forgetfulness

My mama is on my mind daily, especially now that Mother's Day has a foot in the door.  I miss my mom and talk to her all the time about everything. It isn't the same as actually having her here, but I like to think she looks in on me from time to time and listens as well now as she did before God relocated her to His place.

Today I recalled an incident from my teen years. Prom loomed, and Mama agreed to take me dress shopping.  We picked the night we would go, but when she arrived home from work she was beat. She apologized and promised to take me the next day. To say I was disappointed is an understatement.  I was so angry with Mama for letting me down that I mouthed off, something I rarely did, and stormed out of the house to walk off my mad.

Why I didn't get my butt grounded I'll never know. My anger simmered for a day or so. The shopping trip occurred but I tarnished the excursion with my bad attitude, and have regretted it ever since.

A few months before Mama died she came to visit. We sipped wine and chatted on my back deck one evening and I thought of that incident. As an adult, I understand coming home exhausted after a long day at the office and needing to put off what would most certainly be an hours long shopping trip.

"My behavior that night has haunted me," I confessed. "I made you feel awful for disappointing me, and I should have been nicer and more understanding. If it is any consolation, I empathize now, and I hope you will forgive me."

"Snowflake," she said, "I don't remember that. In fact, I cannot remember a moment when you brought me anything but joy."

We mothers have the ability to toss the bad from our hearts and embrace the good, much as we acknowledge the pain of childbirth even as we minimize it in the glow of our love for our children. That heartaches fade while blessings multiply is one of God's great gifts to mothers.

I still feel guilty about that incident, even though Mama forgave and forgot. Were she with me now I imagine she would tell me to get over it already. Life is too short, she would say, to do anything but love.

Happy Mother's Day -

Lisa

Happy September 1st!

Once upon a time and long ago, on the 1st of September, there was a restaurant and lounge in Merrimack, New Hampshire called The Village Squire. Mama and Daddy took me there for dinner—our standing Friday night date—and we three made a pact: no matter where the years might lead us, September 1st would be our anniversary. We would meet for dinner every September 1st, we promised, no matter what. I still have the red matchbook bearing the restaurant logo. When I flip the cover I see the date, written in the sloping cursive of my 17-year-old self: September 1, 1978.

This, the 1st of September 2009, marks the 31st anniversary of that dinner. I wish I could remember details about that night, but in typical teenage fashion I took for granted the hours spent. If I could live it again I would take photos and write a detailed journal; I would make note of the menu and the waiter’s name and the topics of conversation. I would memorize every sound, color, and scent; every bit of laughter and nuance of conversation. I would savor those things which, in my youth, I could not imagine ever being without.

I remember snippets, such as Daddy wearing a tweed sport coat and Mama’s charm bracelet jangling. Daddy drank a vodka martini with extra olives and Mama ordered scotch and water on the rocks (with a lemon twist). Before dinner drinks were sipped, not slurped, and dinner—seafood, I think—lasted for a couple of hours, not a couple of minutes. There were white linen tablecloths and I sat next to Mama in the booth with Daddy across from us. It sounds formal, but it was very casual, and we were silly and laughed a lot. I had just graduated from high school the June before, so I imagine we discussed my plans to attend the University of Las Vegas in the spring. Daddy was a philosopher at heart, so the conversation may have veered toward lofty things. God help me, I cannot remember. I want so much to remember.

Subsequent Septembers came and went, and for a few years we celebrated on the first day of the month to honor our pledge. But our pact gave way to life—marriage and babies and moves and illness and death. Before Mama and Daddy died we rarely forgot our special day and, over the telephone and the separation of a thousand miles, we would share a glass of wine to commemorate that first dinner.

I pray that right now my parents are together holding hands on a heavenly beach, watching over me and calling out, “Happy anniversary, Snowflake!” And in their honor I lift my wine glass and say, “Happy September 1st to the best parents God created. I will love you forever and miss you always, and I hope I’ve made you proud.”

Love,
Snowflake