Tag Archives: memories

Prose

Snapshots

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I’m not sure about everyone else, but the majority of my memories, especially those from my childhood, are like snapshots inside my head.

It takes no effort at all on my part to see clearly the treehouse in front of my dad’s shop at our old house on Savannah Highway. I can’t remember for the life of me how we got up there but the rough edges of the pine planks, dotted with peepholes (which were, in hindsight, not intended to be peepholes; they were simply holes where the pine knots used to be) are clear as the Alabama sky. More effectively, we could peer out the windows by swinging open the small squares of the wall Daddy had carefully cut out and hinged back on. When it came time to properly fortify our little hideout, we slipped our tiny uncoordinated fingers beneath the dark red vinyl straps he had fastened into handles. Continue reading Snapshots →

Life or something like it

Blue Letter Days

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When I was a kid, mostly junior high-ish, every girl I knew kept these calendars. They were these cheap little things about the size of a checkbook that you could pick up just about anywhere for a dollar or two. Beneath the shiny plastic cover would be a photo of cute little teddy bears or dolphins or cuddly kittens. Inside, each month had a calendar that spread two pages and included an “inspirational” quote of some kind.

We wrote down everything in those little books. Practically every day was a blob of messy blue ink from the cheap pens we smuggled into school (pencils were the required writing utensil; pens were frowned upon). Back then every event seemed to be filled with such promise. And so were we. Everything that happened was possibly the beginning of something important. Whether it be the first time we had lunch with a new girlfriend or the first time a certain boy spoke to us in the hall. Or maybe it was our first softball practice with the varsity team. It didn’t matter what it was, it was all significant. We would record every event, sometimes in shorthand (in case the parentals happened to get their hands on them), because we just knew that someday we’d want to be able to look back and remember that was the day. Right there. That’s where it all started.

I don’t know exactly when I stopped recording everything like that. But I wish I still did it. I wish I could look at something that happened this morning and actually believe for the ten seconds it would take to write it down that it could be the beginning of something great. But the sad thing is that I just can’t make myself do it. I’ve seen the world’s evil face and I know what tomorrow has to offer. Or maybe I’ve just gotten so bogged down in the way I think things are that I’m failing to see potential all around me.

Either way, I realize now how much happiness is tied to hope. And faith. And how much I need to find some of both.

Life or something like it

She

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She always had a joke to tell and after she delivered the punchline, the walls would quiver from her hearty laugh. She worked long hard days hemming tee-shirts in a factory and never once complained. She was a mother not unlike my own. Selfless. Strong. Sympathetic.

Friday nights throughout my childhood were spent with her, making Coke floats and watching Dallas. Every fall she would take my brother and I shopping for “Back to School clothes” and every winter she would fill her tiny living room with Christmas gifts for us all.

She drove a simple gray car and lived in a modest, aging house. The floors creaked with every step she took as she prepared a feast for us every Sunday afternoon. When the February cold whisked through the thin walls, she would leave the oven on and open the door to supplement the heat from the wood-burning stove.

She smelled of almond bark and cherries.

I never heard her speak an unkind word about another living soul, even though life had given her just cause to do so. She was the woman I hope to be someday. She was everything a grandmother should be.

And today would have been her birthday.