Memories

Folks, a few weeks ago Betty and I went with our son and daughter-in-law over to spend time with our daughter who had just lost her husband, Owen, after a long bout with cancer.

While there, on occasion, I glanced around their house at the many objects that adorned their walls. Things setting in various rooms on shelves and in antique cupboards.

Many of these things brought vivid memories of past times. Take for instance the dishes that I recognized as going back at least six generations. Chairs that had been in our family for years.

As I observed these and many other objects I suddenly became aware that it was not the objects but the memory of people that filled my mind.

There was a painting by a South African artist that was given to our family by an exchange student from that country. There were recent paintings by my granddaughter Cassie and one painted by my great granddaughter, Clara. My eyes focused on a hutch cupboard that was my grandmothers that had graced our home when I was a lad. A stained glass window that was removed from a house we lived in when my daughter was four or five years old. A cedar chest made for her by a student of mine in his wood craft class. Betty and I gave it to her in 1956.

Memories of the people and their association with these items kept flashing through my mind.

Betty and I slept in a bed that had a handmade quilt on it. We had purchased that quilt from an Amish lady when we were on a trip through Pennsylvania with our good friends Melvin and Jane Sears. What a great trip that was!

It seemed I saw something in each room that brought back wonderful memories of friends, loved ones and the circumstances surrounding each item. The beautiful wood carving of a Guinea Foul that was given to our son-in-law Owen, after his speech in Pretoria, South Africa. Betty and I were along with him and our daughter on this trip.

It seemed I saw something in each room that brought back wonderful memories. Was it the objects themselves? Of course not! It was the memories of the people that filled my heart with joy and my eyes with tears; just as they are now as I write this column.

Folks it is not the ‘stuff’ we accumulate, or their monetary value, but whom and what they represent.

Think for a moment, think! Would you sell that hand print pressed in plaster Paris and presented to you by a beloved child for hundreds of dollars? I think not! Some things are priceless! It is not the monetary value that is important! It is what that object represents to you!

Folks, we can’t live in the past, but it can be a pleasant place to visit every so often.

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