Do you want anything?

 August 2020  My phone rang one evening a week ago.

“Do you want anything?”  Mom asked.  “Someone’s coming in the morning to take the rest of the stuff we don’t want before the house sells.”

Hmm…  What would I want…

I want a piece of siding, so I can remember what color the house was.

I want the window my brother broke with the back of his head (that's a funny story).  

I definitely do not want the light fixture from my old bedroom.  I still have nightmares about it.

I want one of the bathroom sinks that I cleaned so many times, but they never looked clean, so I can show my grandchildren that bathroom fixtures should never be mustard yellow.

I want the bank that I used to shoot arrows at and sculpt mud on.

I want the big picture window, where I would stand for hours watching for my siblings to arrive home from college.  And we would watch magnificent sunsets through it.  On spring mornings we would watch for the spray planes to dive over the orchards. 

I want all the memories that only come back to me when I turn a corner or glance out a window.

I want the wildflowers.  Ookow, soap bush, hound’s tongue, buttercup, Howell’s lily, dogwood, bitter cherry, chocolate bells, hawthorns, wild roses, trilliums…  They were my friends.

And, of course, I really want the fantastic hearth.  But I just don’t have anywhere to put it. 

“No, Mom, I don’t want anything.  But thanks for asking.”

**Two years later, the house has been leveled.  It seemed so cruel, until I realized that my memories are still mine.  Everything my family has become, and how that place influenced us, can’t be taken away by the new owners.  The important things are in my heart, in the present, and in the future.**

Sandwich Box

 My mom didn't use Tupperware or other such containers.  I don't know why.  We used Saran wrap (plastic wrap) or repurposed containers (cottage cheese, sour cream, etc.).  At some point in high school I started making my own lunches, consisting of little more than a peanut butter and jam sandwich.  Eventually it was nothing but the sandwich.  I ate a lot when I got home.  

I didn't like how my sandwiches got squished in my backpack everyday.  None of the old containers my mom saved were the right shape for putting sandwiches in.  One day I came across a greeting card box that was the perfect size and shape.  (I had probably used all the cards; I wrote a lot of letters in those days.)  I painted the box with some old acrylics and used it to protect my lunch.  

Several kids commented on my sandwich box.  They were confused why I would put food in cardboard.  I did wrap the sandwich in plastic first, I'm not a savage.  I was confused why other people found it strange.  I had made a solution to my problem, isn't that perfectly normal?  So far as I knew, no one had invented Tupperware for sandwiches.  I'd never been in that part of Walmart.  

Today, I have lots of sandwich boxes.  The store-bought, purpose-made, plastic kind that snap together.  Pink ones, green ones, clear ones.  Such luxury.  Have I mentioned that my kids are spoiled?