“Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?”
Jane Austen, in a letter dated April 1, 1816
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Hello Friend,
I’ve been taken back in time this week. You know those moments when you smell something, see or hear something that triggers a memory from long ago? That’s what happened to me.
The trigger:
A TV show where a group of people were releasing pale purple balloons into the sky. It was the colour of the balloons that instantly took me back to my childhood, standing in my grandparents’ den, looking at framed portraits on their wall – generations of aunts, uncles, cousins at different stages of life.
Instead of brushing past a moment’s memory, I leaned into it. I wanted to know why on earth the colour of a balloon would bring up my grandparents’ wall of family portraits. So, I let myself go back in time. Are you ready for this journey?
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Walking into Grandpa and Grandma’s den, there is a big solid desk on the right where they keep the mantel clock that strikes every quarter hour in solemn comforting chimes. Decades later I would come to recognize how that clock is symbolic of my roots, my foundation. Solid, steady, as reliable as Grandma, who wound it once a week. One of my cousins has it now.
Across the room from the desk, under the window, is Grandma’s sewing desk. Probably vintage 1950’s, beige plastic-y wood. Possibly formica? And on the wall between the two desks, above the scratchy chesterfield, are the framed studio portraits of all the relatives – mostly 8 X 10’s.
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Some are black and white, but many are in the filtered greeny-grey typical of the 60’s and 70’s. Fresh faces, pouffy hair, families lined up from oldest to youngest, all looking out at the camera with their best smiles.
And then there’s the oldest portrait, black and white. The one that my eyes come to rest on longest. It’s a head and shoulders close-up. He’s wearing a dark suit with white shirt, skinny dark tie. Strong jawline, wavy black hair. The eyes behind the heavy black-framed glasses are friendly with a hint of a twinkle, like he’s about to tell a joke or play a prank on someone. This is Uncle Ike, who died months before his sister – my Mom – married Dad. A farm accident. He was months away from his own wedding, I’m told.
I know all my aunts and uncles and cousins. But I don’t know him. Though he died years before I was born, as I stand here looking at him I still feel him missing from my life. Who were you Uncle Ike? I think I would have liked you.
But my reason for coming into the den in the first place is to look for my Easter bag. Every Easter Grandma fills brown paper bags with Easter candy and hides them for my cousins and me to find. Each bag has exactly the same items inside.
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There’s mine, on Grandpa’s desk, behind some books. It has my name on it in affirming black letters. I open it. The largest candy egg in the bag is an opaque mauve, exactly the colour of the balloons I saw on the TV show. It’s so sugary it gives me a headache.
Remembering the Easter bag takes me even further back in time, to another Easter hunt. This time I’m searching for my Easter bag on Grandpa and Grandma’s farm. (They moved off the farm about 1969 so I am under six years old at this time.)
All the boys’ bags are in the big red barn and the girls’ bags are in the old red garage. It seems like there are a lot of cousins here today – maybe about 12. I’m one of the younger ones and a little apprehensive because … well, because I’m a little in awe of my older cousins and usually quiet around them. I’m an observer by nature.
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Inside, the garage is lit by daylight coming through the big doors that open out on hinges. It smells like gasoline, motor oil, and something sweet. The concrete floor is stained, rough and uneven. At the back of the garage where it is darker, plank shelves seem to rise forever to the ceiling. That’s where I’m heading – the plank shelves, on which a jumble of oil cans, rags, and other garage paraphernalia reside. I know my bag must be there on the shelves and I’m wondering how I’ll reach them.
The other girl cousins have fanned out throughout the garage. I can hear them chattering and laughing. Somehow I’ve climbed high enough to reach the first shelf. I’m being careful of splinters.
Aha! There’s a bag. I pull it towards me, but someone else’s name is on it. I check over my shoulder to make sure no one sees before I dutifully put it back in place. But someone has seen. “Hey, is that mine?” She takes it and heads happily out of the garage. So much for my plan to be the first one to find my bag.
I climb down and start to walk to the other side of the garage but here, on the floor behind a broom leaning against the wall, is another bag. I glance around before picking it up. It’s mine!
I feel a mixture of elation and irritation. I found my bag, but what an easy hiding place. I hadn’t thought to look in an easy place. I head out of the garage to the big white farmhouse beyond.
End of memory.
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I’m glad I leaned into this purple-balloon-triggered memory. It reminded me that I come from a rock solid foundation, a place where I was loved and valued, felt safe, belonged.
Everyone should feel like they belong somewhere, don’t you think?
Thanks for visiting today. Stay safe out there, and see you next time.
Joy
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