First Memories

“The first memory then becomes the starting point in our own narratives of the self. ‘Our first memoris are lik the creation stories that humans have always told about the origins of the earth,” [John] Kotre writes. ‘In a similar way, the individual self—knowing how the story is coming out—selects its earliest memories to say, This is who I am because this is how I began.’” –Miller & Paola, Tell It Slant

I have been reading books recently about writing and journaling. A few weeks ago the above quote caught my attention. The idea of a connection between our earliest memories and who we are today has been rolling around in my mind ever since. I’m still not sure that I agree with the authors, but it is an intriguing idea. Here is some of what I have been pondering:

My earliest memories are like snapshots, pictures of moments unrelated to full situations. I remember my dad standing up in river water, holding out a clam for me to look at. I remember running down a road, chasing a station wagon as it drove away; followed by sitting by a campfire arguing with someone that a cat cannot possibly be a fish. I remember a bright room, a dark window, shattered glass, screams, and blood.

Over the years, I have filled in the stories surrounding these mental snapshots. When I was young, we lived in a cottage not far from the Illinois River where we went swimming in the summer. There were clams along the river bottom, and my dad would bring them up to show to me, before throwing them back.

My parents were leaders of the youth group at church. The summer that I was three years old, they took the teens on a campout to a lake an hour or so away from town. At the end of the week, my mom left early with most of the kids. My dad drove back later. Somehow, he forgot that I had not gone home with Mom, an he drove off without me. As the story goes, another family saw me toddling after the car, and took me back to their campsite until my parents returned for me hours later. (I can’t imagine what that car ride back must have been like for my parents.) During that time, my rescuers cooked up catfish they had caught earlier that day, which I was certain was mis-named.

Finally, during a winter retreat with that same youth group later that same year, one of the girls accidentally put her arm through the window while climbing into a bunk bed. That explained the noise, and screams, and blood.

According to the quote that intrigued me, the fact that these are the earliest memories my mind has chosen to remember should also connect with who I am today. Perhaps it is a stretch, but I can see some connections.

I enjoy swimming, being outdoors, and discovering new-to-me critters and plants. There is no sense of panic or fear in the broken window memory. And today, when I deal with emergency situations as an EMT or as a ski patroller, there is a sense of fascination and a focus on helping the patient.

There seems to be an even closer connection from the little me left behind at the campgrounds and the big me of today. Again, there is no sense of fear or panic in this memory. While growing up, my mom frequently commented on how independent I was. I went to summer camps, eventually for weeks at a time, and did not experience home-sickness until going to college in Canada for a year.

I apparently had no shyness about the family who took me back to their campsite. Even today, I enjoy meeting new people and spending time with them; an attribute that runs from childhood through the present. I might have been overwhelmed if I had been totally alone when my Dad drove off. With a group of people to interact with, I was comfortable.

how can a cat be a fish?

Finally, the memory of arguing about a cat not being a fish comes with feelings of laughter. Apparently, even at that young age I was both fascinated with words and happy to argue my own beliefs. Whether considered to be strengths or weaknesses, both of these characteristics are still true of me today.

So…I look at my earliest memories. And I look at myself and who I am today. Perhaps the authors are correct and what I selectively remember builds and strengthens who I have become. Perhaps this is all a bunch of “hoo-ey.”

I would be interested to hear the opinions of my readers—based on my examples or based on your own experience. Do our earliest memories shape us or do we shape them?

Closets…

enough space for memories...

Do you know what is buried in the back of your closets? Are your closets clean and organized? Or are they filled with jumbles of clothes, piles of shoes and shelves of stuff? Mine are definitely the latter. I prefer to quickly find what I need then slam the door, to hopefully ignore the pitiful state of my closets for as long as possible.

When I think of closets, however, I realize they have played a significant role in my life—far larger than merely holding my stuff. I have happy memories of time spent in closets! Yes, I know that sounds weird. Let me explain…

I have an early memory of a family trip out west, ending up at a conference center near Seattle where my dad had a presentation to make. The housing was amazing. The bedroom held a raised stage, just begging for theatre productions by my sisters and I. We wrote a play, found some costumes, and performed for an enthusiastic audience of two. (Well, I don’t really remember if our parents were enthusiastic, or even if they were an audience, I just remember the joy of being on stage!) What does this have to do with my topic? Yep, that “stage” was a raised, walk-in closet with bi-fold doors for “curtains.”

Some time later, I spent a year or more sleeping in the closet. I was tired of my family. I was tired of having a bedroom right next to my sisters. So, I moved down to the basement. I took over the closet under the stairs. I slid my mattress under the lower steps and squeezed in a small dresser. Ahh…privacy at last! (And, no, I did NOT allow either of my sisters to take over “my” room upstairs. Good thing, too, since I eventually changed from being the troll under the stairs back into a human who wanted a normal bedroom!)

After getting married, we bought an old farmhouse in the suburbs. It was quite frustrating that the closets had been built at a time when hooks were used to hang clothes. Modern-day hangers were too long for the depth of the closet. This led to the purchase of a wonderful wood wardrobe…but none of these were closets I spent time in…

When we moved to a large farmhouse out in the country, there was a huge walk-in closet in the master bedroom. It was almost the size of a small room, with an interior cedar closet and laundry room shelves at one end. This closet eventually became a room—it was the perfect size for a nursery for the two babies born while we lived there. The playpen/crib fit snuggly in one end of the closet, with plenty of shelves for baby clothes, bedding, diapers, and toys. Our clothes fit fine in the cedar closet. My mom worried at times, that we should put a window into the walk-in closet wall. I didn’t worry about it—the babies were only in there to sleep. Plus, I had lived in a closet with no windows for a year, and it didn’t harm me!

Finally, I have happy memories of time spent digging through very special closets: the craft and gift closets at the last few places we have lived. It started with an extra closet being put to use to hold my scrapbooking and other craft supplies. With a large family, it takes a lot of space to hide gifts for upcoming holidays. So, my craft cupboard turned into a gift cupboard near the holidays. I would like to think that kids weren’t able to find the key and search the boxes for their Christmas gifts (although I’m pretty certain that’s not true). At least it seemed like a secure place to hide the gifts from prying eyes. And each time I opened the door to get out craft supplies or to hide another item I had purchased, I was reminded of the joy of holiday gift giving. I miss that craft and gift closet. Now I make do with drawers and bins. It just isn’t quite the same.

Hmmm…as I think about it, I guess messy, jumbled closets aren’t so terrible after all. They still have plenty of space to hold all my memories of closets past!

A Different Life

My pastor asks a question...

A few weeks ago, the pastor at church asked an interesting question during his sermon. He asked, “Where would you be today if you weren’t a Christian?” The focus of his sermon was on making good life choices as we follow Jesus. But my mind wandered off, pondering less tangible aspects of his question.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized how radically different my life would be if I wasn’t a Christian. Now, just to make it clear here at the beginning of this post, I am NOT talking about my spiritual life. Yes, God has changed my life in significant ways. Yes, I would likely have gotten into major trouble with bad choices. Yes, my faith in God is what has gotten me through some very dark places and times. The focus of my ponderings, though, is on the physical and relational ways I would not be the same person if Christianity had not influenced the course of my life.

Here are a few of the things I’ve thought of:

If my parents were not Christians, they would not have chosen to attend a Christian college. Thus they would not have met, and I wouldn’t have been born. (Whew! That’s a pretty major one to start with!)

When I was little, my family met with another family and a few single guys to start a new church in the town we lived in. We would never have met without a mutual interest in Christianity which would have meant that those long-time friends and I would not still be interested and involved in each others’ lives and ministries. (I’m so glad to still feel supported and loved by Vera and Louise, in particular!)

Actually, MOST of the good friends I have had over the years have been people I have met in various church or ministry settings. My life is so much richer because of their influence. And, when we have faced challenges (pregnancy bed-rest, husband’s cancer, death of son, etc), we have received significant practical support from our church “family” in ways that our scattered biological families could not provide.

During elementary school through middle school, I enjoyed time each summer at a variety of camps. Perhaps if we were not Christians, my family would still have sent me to camp. But I know I would not have good memories today of time spent at Camp Burton (a church camp in northeast Ohio), Camp Cherith (a girls-club camp in Ohio) and Csehy Summer School of Music (a highly focused music camp run by Christians in Pennsylvania).

For that matter, I don’t know if I would have the same love of music if it weren’t for Christian influences. I learned part singing and harmonizing during hymn singing at church. I listened to and eventually participated in choirs and musicals put on at church. I gained confidence in playing instruments in front of others largely through performance opportunities at church.

During turbulent, rebellious years of adolescence, I was significantly influenced by my “second mom.” Mom Peterson was a stabilizing presence. She could speak things into my life that I could not hear during that time from my own parents. I could feel total acceptance from her, partially because she was not responsible for disciplining me. (She is also the one who arranged for me to go to Csehy music camp.) Thanks, “Mom”! (And thanks, Mom, for letting me spend time with a second “mom.”)

I don’t know how much exposure to and interest in foreign cultures I would have if not for Christianity. My parents often invited international students and co-workers into our home, especially for Thanksgiving dinner. Would they have done this if they did not view it as a “ministry”? In a similar way, I was influenced by annual missions conferences at our church. Each year I heard stories about cultures from around the world, and saw wonderful photographs. During the rest of the year, I read all the missionary biographies found in the church library, and hunted for stories from other places at the public library.

Related to my life-long interest in different cultures, I have enjoyed learning new languages. I delight in practicing Spanish whenever I get the chance. Although I was good at book-Spanish because of good teachers in the public schools, my fluency was developed during high school by spending a summer in Mexico teaching Vacation Bible School in Spanish with Teen Missions International. Most people I know haven’t used the language they learned in high school since those long ago days in class. I suspect my on-going interest was strongly influenced by that Christian-ministry-based time in Mexico.

I would not have met my husband, Randy, if it weren’t for my involvement in a “college and career group” at church during college. This group celebrated Fourth of July at the home of a cousin of one of the group-members. Randy came to the picnic as well, as a friend of that cousin. We met, we dated, we married.

We hadn’t been married long when we were asked to provide Sunday transportation to a Cambodian refugee family sponsored by my family’s church. That opened up a wide variety of paths—our on-going mutual admiration, mutual support, mutual fun friendship with Barb & Nicky Nichols and their family; our involvement in my family’s church including starting a young-couple’s group which provided many more friendships for us and for our growing number of children; and our involvement in working with Cambodian refugees. Eventually this led to my parents taking in a Cambodian mom and her two young children—my little sister and brother today. No church? No long-time friends and No extra family…

Speaking of my parents, we have been influenced by their generosity. We have watched them through the years as they faithfully gave a double tithe, reached out to help others in tangible and intangible ways, and, at one point, even gave up their home to a family from overseas! It’s not that non-Christians are not generous. It’s just that my parents were motivated to do these things because of their faith and their example influenced us as well.

When our oldest son was hospitalized with asthma as a toddler, we developed a connection with the resident overseeing his care. Dr. Houts and I would likely never have kept contact except for our families’ mutual interest in missions. He and his wife spent time working with Native Americans in the Southwest before returning to private practice in central Ohio. We very much appreciated his skills as a pediatrician and highly recommended him to Randy’s little sister when they were expecting their first child. In addition to his medical skills, Dr. Houts’ strong Christian faith was a comfort to Rebecca and Alan as they walked through medical crises with their son and as they dealt with that son’s death a few short years later. What level of care or concern would they have experienced from another doctor if we hadn’t connected with Dr. Houts years earlier because of shared Christian faith?

We spent three years in South Carolina for Bible and cross-cultural training for eventual ministry overseas (which did not end up happening). During those years we learned to better understand and appreciate rural Black culture through our involvement with an AME church. Time spent together was stretching for both us and our African American friends. Beyond learning to love some of our new friends there, it affected the names of two of our children. Nettie would most likely not have been named “Janetta” – partially chosen in honor of Ms. John Etta. James was named for our special friend who was the jazz organist at church. Who knows what other names they would have had instead?

We have been homeschooling for the past 19 years. There are many non-Christian homeschoolers today. When we started, however, secular homeschoolers were few and far between. We might never have heard about homeschooling if we had not been in Christian circles and been reading Christian magazines. “Mom” Peterson (mentioned above) was a significant influence in our considering such a radical option for our eldest daughter. We were encouraged to stick with it and not give up, in part because of participation in homeschool groups, most of which were church based. (I should make it clear, however, that we do not homeschool for religious reasons. We homeschool for academic and social reasons.)

We most likely would never have owned our “play farm” in Central Ohio if it were not for Christian faith. We loved the property when we first saw it, but quickly learned it was way out of our price range. I would never have continued to interact with the realtor if my young son had not been repeatedly telling me to “call the lady back, Mama. I’m talking to Jesus about it.” I couldn’t bear to deflate his faith with real-world “truths” (no way could we afford this place), so I humored him and “called the lady back” more than once. And by the end of that week, after a number of miraculous happenings, our meager offer was accepted. The farm was eventually ours.

As mentioned above, Christian friends have walked with us through difficult times. In addition, after our son died, we probably would not have heard about or considered going to Cornerstone of Hope for grief counseling. I truly believe the counselors and peer-to-peer groups there were critically important in healthy processing and long-term healing for all of us in dealing with this devastating loss.

During all of the life-struggles, our marriage basically shattered. Time spent with Randy’s brother and sister-in-law in Denver and later with his little sister and brother-in-law in Ohio were supportive and a big help to us and our two youngest kids. I don’t know if that help would have been enough to keep us together long-term. A marriage support group, new friends, and a counselor (all Christians) in Denver did lots of listening and spoke many truths into our lives. And a godly couple, who took a personal interest in Randy when he returned to the school in South Carolina a few years ago to finish his master’s degree, were a significant influence as well. If not for support, encouragement, and prayers from these Christian friends, we would likely be divorced today.

Finally, we are now living in remote New Mexico, working with local Navajo. I can’t imagine any way that we would be here today, if not for our being Christians and open to the idea of ministry; my sister being involved in a church where she saw and forwarded information to me about this position; and the board being open to God’s leading in accepting “wounded” folks such as ourselves.

Going back to our pastor’s question: “Where would you be today if you weren’t a Christian?” My life would certainly have been different in significant ways.

What about you?

 

“Fauna-vert”

James, the original "fauna-vert"

I am a “fauna-vert.” That’s similar to being an animal lover…but doesn’t this word sound so much fancier?! James made up the word years ago while at an out-of-town skating competition where the hotel had a cat. He commented that he was not an extrovert (recharging by time with people) nor an introvert (recharging by time alone) but a “fauna-vert” (recharging by time with animals). This is a good description for me as well.

(Okay, okay, yes, I am an extrovert and need lots of people time. But time with animals helps recharge me, too.)

Randy has teased me for years about being “Mrs. Noah.” I think he may have meant it as a bit of a negative thing—something about being frustrated with me collecting more and more animals—but I take it as a compliment. Yep, that’s me. I’m an animal lover.

But gradually I realized it’s more than just enjoying animals. More than just being interested and intrigued by them. I NEED time with animals. They calm me and comfort me in ways nothing else can. They add beauty and laughter to my life.

Our dog died not long before we bought our big RV for 9 months of wandering out west. For some odd reason, Randy was adamant that I could have kids in the RV or a dog in the RV but not both. I tried to find someone to take the kids, but no luck… So we went traveling as a family, with no pets along for the ride.

At first it was hard. Nothing to cuddle. Nothing to pet. But then Anna and I discovered other people in the RV parks had pets. Ahhh…dogs to play with, cats to pet, birds to enjoy

the original "fauna-vert"s mom with current companion

So now we are settled into one place again. We are no longer wandering. Randy can no longer prohibit both children and pets living together in one small space. And the gathering of animals has begun again…

We have a new dog. Anna has her own kitten. We are caring for Rob’s hedgehog and occasionally “baby-sitting” Nettie’s guinea pig. We have baby turkeys and guinea hens in a pen out back.

Gradually it’s becoming paradise around here for Mrs. Noah. After all, I AM a “fauna-vert.”

Emergency!

I have always been fascinated by medical things. For years I thought I wanted to be an RN (until I learned just how much authority they don’t have!) I dabbled with the idea of becoming a chiropractor, but couldn’t imagine the years of schooling required. Plus, like I explained in an earlier post, I really wanted to be a stay-at-home mom which felt incompatible with massive school debt. Not actually having any medical certifications has never dulled my interest. I’ve read a zillion books over the years about every imaginable facet of medical care, medical research, emergency care, wilderness medicine, and more.

First...ski patrol

Five or six years ago, I started down an interesting path. Like many starts and like many paths, I had no idea where I would eventually end up. It started innocently enough with a late-night ski session with my daughter, Nettie. There was a sign in the window of the First Aid Room—Ski Patrollers Wanted. I went in, “just to talk,” and a few weeks later I started the training program to become a certified Outdoor Emergency Care technician, also known as a “Ski Patroller.”

On the way to the first class, I fell apart in the car. I was shaking and crying and felt sick to my stomach. All I wanted to do was turn around and go home. I called a friend instead. As she prayed for me, I realized I was terrified of rejection. After all, I’m an overweight, older woman. I’m not the glamorous, athletic image most people have of Ski Patrollers. Who was I kidding?! I finally dried my tears, and finished the drive to class. I figured I could quit before paying the fees if it really wasn’t for me…

But…I loved it. I was finally learning and using medical skills. I delighted in the knowledge. I have always been good at memorizing information and taking tests. I really could do this!

...then EMT- Basic

And then in the fall, we started practicals classes. Oops! My mind went blank on the first scenario. I couldn’t think of ANYthing to ask or do. This time, instead of wanting to quit, I got mad. I went home and studied harder, determined to not just pass the eventual tests but to be GOOD at figuring out what to do in an emergency setting.

That first ski season started and I enjoyed the challenge. I could have fun skiing, I could keep my brain active, and I could actually help people while doing so! A friend who went through the classes with me only lasted one season. She hated the pressure. She felt like someone could be harmed or even die if she did not do everything perfectly. On the other hand, I thrived on the challenge. Each time I helped stabilize and treat an injured skier or boarder, all I could think was “if I do everything right I can save this person’s life…or at least make a difference in their recovery.”

someday Paramedic...

I have continued to walk down the path I started “way back when.” I became an instructor for OEC/Ski Patrol. I took the classes and passed National Registry as an EMT-Basic. And now? Now I am getting ready to start classes to become a Paramedic, looking toward to the eventual day when I can get certified to train local Navajo as First Responders.

I laugh when I tell people I finally figured what I want to be “when I grow up” (now that I am almost 50 years old!!) I wanna be a PARAMEDIC! I wanna help people in crisis and potentially save lives in emergencies. I wanna train others to do the same.

Looking back, I think it is quite interesting that one of the few TV shows I ever watched regularly was “Emergency.” Through middle school and high school I thrilled each week to seeing paramedics in action. (Later it was “M*A*S*H* and, more recently, House—all shows with a medical theme.) Now?? One of these days I may be one of them! I may be a “medical professional.”

Did it start with these guys??

Who would have ever imagined??

And YOU? What seeds were planted in your childhood of interests or dreams that you gradually left behind? Which seeds, if reconsidered, might bring enjoyment and fulfillment to your life today? Don’t discount where those paths might lead…

When I Grow Up…

What did YOU want to be when you grew up? For awhile I thought I wanted to be a nurse. But then I found out nurses have no authority; basically, they are minions to the doctors. Scratch that idea…my independent (rebellious?) streak would never survive such a job. So…what else could I do?

Eventually I figured out what I really wanted to be when I grew up. It was a difficult job. It would take patience, and creativity, and flexibility. Oooo…the more I thought about it, the more I realized it would be a job in which I would never have time to be bored. What did I wanna be?? I’ll tell you in a minute…

I grew up with a stay-at-home mom. But it was the era of Women’s Lib. So moms of my friends often asked what I was going to do when I grew up. I confess…my answer horrified them: “I wanna be a MOM,” I would say.

I wanna be a mom...of a nice big family

“But…you could be ANYthing,” they would urge.

“Yep! I know. And I wanna be a mom,” I would answer.

35 years later, I can truly say it was a great career decision. I see too many friends who bought into what they were told while growing up. They have been frustrated trying to juggle a career with raising a family. Too often, they don’t find fulfillment in either role. Unlike those women who have been pulled in multiple directions at the same time, I have had the privilege of focusing on one primary role: Mom.

Yeah, this career of mine has had its ups and downs. Sometimes I wasn’t sure if I would kill the kids first or if they would be the death of me. But the pros definitely have outweighed the cons. I wouldn’t trade my “job” for anything else. In my job, I have gotten to mold the future. I have been able to dream—for myself, and for each one of my kids.

...even if that sounds silly to you!

And I was right, there really hasn’t been much time to be bored!

I’m happy with what I have done “when I grew up.” What about you??

“Big” Birthdays?

Certain birthdays are supposed to be epic. They are “milestones.” They are looked forward to eagerly…or with trepidation. They are significant markers of time passing.

BUT…

I apparently live on a different timeline.

Sweet 16? I spent that summer right after my birthday in Mexico. At one point, we participated in a big, village-wide Quinceneros party to celebrate a girl moving from childhood to adulthood on her 15^th birthday. My turning 16 paled in comparison. (And back then, you didn’t get your driver’s license until months later since you couldn’t start driver’s ed until you were already 16.)

I had friends who moaned about turning 20; stressed over leaving their teens behind. My teen years were not so stellar that I wanted to spend more time there. And I had gotten married at 19, so turning 20 was an afterthought that year

What about turning 30? A friend or two were stressing out about still be unmarried at that age…about their biological clock ticking with no children on the horizon. Me? When my mom asked what I wanted for my 30^th birthday, I responded that all I wanted was for this baby I was carrying to be BORN already! (And, indeed, James—baby number 5—WAS born on my 30^th birthday!)

40? Nah. Still not a “big one” for me. At 38 I hit “mid-life-crisis.” I grieved all the things I would never do. I laid in bed for a few days feeling sorry for myself. Then I put together a scrapbook with pages decorated to fill with photos each time I accomplish something I dreamed of doing. My oldest two children left for college the next summer. 40? Forty was an insignificant transition when it came (unless I count having just birthed our youngest child a few months earlier…)

"milestone" or not...time moves on

So now I’m looking towards my 50^th birthday in May of next year. Will THIS one be a milestone birthday? I’m certainly moving toward it with intention, and with introspection. But “milestone”?? I’m not so sure about that. The five years leading up to it have been significant—husband’s life-threatening cancer, death of a son, wandering the western USA in an RV for 9 months, getting EMT certification, moving to become directors of a mission in NM. Certainly no shortage of significant, life-changing events during this time. But none of this has been connected with turning 50.

Oh well. I guess I won’t worry about it. I’ll continue to enjoy the good times whenever they occur. And I’ll try to keep walking through the challenging times. My “milestones” may not match with decade-birthdays…but I certainly have plenty to celebrate, no matter what the date!

a breath of fresh air…

There are many things I enjoy about living in New Mexico. This time of year, I am especially grateful that we now live here, and not back in hot, humid Ohio.

We live in the “high desert.” That means we have hot, sunny days. But when the sun goes down, our clear skies allow most of the heat to escape, giving us cool nights. And here on the high plateau, we have breezes most of the time. Ahhh…

One frustration is that it gets gloriously cool most nights, but it stays stuffy inside the house. Even with windows open and fans running, the air still hardly moves in the corners of the room.

And then, a few nights ago, it dawned on me that when I turn upside down in bed, my head is right next to the window. Now I can truly feel the air moving, keeping me cool and comfortable during the night. Ahhh…

Sometime during the night, I realized why this felt so very comfortable. It was not just because of the cool air. It was also because of the memories it brought back…

When I grew up in that same hot, humid Ohio, we never had air conditioning. (My folks still hardly use their air conditioner, but that is another story.) During the day, that wasn’t so bad. We spent most of the summer hanging out at the local pool after all. But it got sticky and miserable at night. Even the huge attic fan mounted in the hallway failed to help. The windows in my bedroom were too high for much of the air being sucked into the attic from outside to actually flow over me and cool me down.

Until the night that I dragged my pillow out to the living room and laid on the  wood floor right in front of the screen door. Night air was finally moving over me, finally cooling me off. Ahhh…

I think I will keep sleeping upside-down in my bed, with my head near the window. I like the breezes…and I like the memories it brings!

For the Love of Reading…

books pile up by my bed

I can’t go too long without reading. Sometimes it’s pitiful: if there are no books handy I will read the back of the cereal box, or the instructions on the medicine bottle, or even the miscellaneous scraps of lists and receipts in my purse. I try desperately to avoid sinking to that level and thus carry a book with me wherever I go.

What started such a terrible, wonderful addiction? Why it’s my mother’s fault, of course! I’m sure she must have read to me when I was little. There are still a few well-worn picture books around from when I was a toddler.

As we got older, we had an every-week, never-miss, family tradition: on Friday afternoons we went to the local library and filled an entire box with books. That evening, all of us could be found sprawled around the family room, eating popcorn and turning page after page in those lovely books we had just checked out.

Even today, if I walk into my folks’ house unexpectedly, I will often find my mom laying on the couch, reading yet another book from the library. Nowadays, she even keeps a card catalogue of every book she reads and might want to reference or re-read someday.

a small corner of our personal library

I confess that I have passed this addiction on to my own children. Trips to the library are an integral part of the week. Favorite birthday and Christmas gifts often include books. Bedtime obviously means reading until you are tired or until mean-Mom insists on turning off the light. No matter how we try to organize, piles of books end up everywhere. No matter how we try to cut back, and cull duplicates and no longer used books, our personal library continues to grow.

In more than one location, librarians have mourned the announcement that we were moving. As a family we have apparently single-handedly increased their circulation, thus increasing their funding! Even when we spent 9 months roaming the western USA in an RV, we found ways to use the libraries. If we couldn’t talk our way into getting a temporary library card for a few days or a week, they often had used book sales so we could stock up before moving on down the road.

There is a poem that I discovered years ago, the ending of which sums up this addiction quite nicely

 “You may have tangible wealth untold;
Caskets of jewels and coffers of gold.
Richer than I you can never be–
I had a Mother who read to me.”

–Strickland Gillilan

Wishing YOU the wonders and joys of such an addiction!

A Drive Down Memory Lane

our family "hot rod"

My dad sent me a photo this week. He and Mom drove their 1921 Model-T Ford to a July 4^th church picnic. Dad commented on how much he enjoyed giving rides to friends who were there.

Looking at the picture took me back in time.

Our family used to take Sunday afternoon drives out into the country; Dad driving with Mom beside him, my sisters and I piled into the back seat, all of us with our hair pulled back or wearing a scarf to keep our hair from whipping into our eyes. There was something heady about waving to all those people who stared and smiled and honked as we passed.

Or the time my folks and my sisters dressed up in 1920s costumes and drove the Model-T in the community 4^th of July parade. (That was the year I marched with the library summer reading club, and lost my “glass” slipper while dressed up as Cinderella—but that’s another story.)

And somewhere I have a treasured photo of my grandparents taking the car out for a spin when they came for a visit. That became their Christmas Card photo that year.

And after I was married, Dad taught my husband how to drive the Model-T. We would take the car out for long rides in the country. Once we took his grandma for a ride, and heard her joyful memories of driving a car just like it when she was a young woman so many years ago. And there are photos of us taking our first baby out for rides in the special car as well.

For years, the grandkids loved to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house…and take Model-T rides in the summer. After my folks moved to a river home, the younger grandkids looked forward to canoe rides and windsurfing. Water play was fun…but the loss of puttering along in the old car was sad.

As the years passed, the car started acting its age. The starter was unreliable; the engine ran rough. The car languished in the garage. My dad mumbled about maybe selling it, then backed down when my sisters and I loudly argued that the car was a treasured part of our childhood and MUST be kept.

Finally, my sister helped get that old Model-T repaired. New wheel spokes were made by an Amish woodworker. The engine was repaired and cleaned til it sparkled. The car was all “spiffed up” just in time for the family gathering to celebrate my parents’ 50^th wedding anniversary. We all piled into and around the car for a family photo.

So now a treasured part of my past is back on the road again. Whenever I hear the putt-putt of the engine or even just see photos of the car, I’m ready for another ride down memory lane.