Story Time: Memories
I took a bit of a break since my last story. My Swedish death clean continues as a work in progress. One day I hope to sit down seeing nothing but uncluttered space; a sterile environment is okay by me.
The reason for the brief hiatus was two-fold. There was no room for the recycling that is created from this exercise. We secured as second recycle bin for the low, low price of $3 a month. After tomorrow’s pick up, I will begin purging again in earnest since I will have room. Followed by the final trip to Goodwill.
The second reason was other parts of life intervened. I wrote snippets but I stop short of relaying all that was going on around these parts because I don’t want to create a false alarm. I’m doing that thing I do to minimize my feelings since in the big scheme of things, my stuff is small stuff. Many more items on the plus column.
After that long preamble, I’ll keep my story short and sweet. Maybe. Wink, wink. See the following picture for a delicate snot rag, found in a box of my mother’s things.
Seeing my mom’s handwriting always does a number on me. She and her sister embroidered this handkerchief some 76 years ago when mom was 12 and Aunt Anne was 15. Three short years later, they would lose my grandfather. Then three more years after that, grandma passed away leaving mom and her siblings adult orphans. The year was 1950. Mom was only 18.
I’ll stop short of saying this is why she got married but it explains much. After the funeral, with the homestead sold, she moved from Runge TX to San Antonio to live with Uncle Red and Aunt Carol. They were newlyweds themselves and times were rough. She didn’t want to be a burden so she found someone else to take care of her. Of course she worked and could’ve taken care of herself. I guess saying she wanted to maintain a good relationship with her brother and sister-in-law is more accurate. Being underfoot did not help things.
My parents were married 15 years before tragedy struck when dad was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. Story goes the surgical team went in to remove the tumor and instead “sewed” him back up. The doc came into the waiting room announcing “if he lives through the night he has six months!” Mother was bitter about the doctor’s bedside manner for years.
I was still a baby at the time. Daddy Wes powered on for two more years before he succumbed. Long enough to sell the farm, pay off the house, and otherwise get his affairs in order. I have some moving stories about his strength and fortitude during this time. I’m convinced his actions ensured we’d have a better life. I may or may not share them though. Much is foggy and more than likely not “real” memories only what I conjured up from what I was told. Only now am I able to admit my mother’s embellishment of many things.
I still loved her desperately in spite of what I look back on now with sadness and confusion. I’m writing in innuendo. I’m still the Queen Comma drama. Please don’t look behind the curtain. Look only into the magic mirror on the wall …. How’s that for symbolism and storytelling? LOL.
Don’t cry for me Argentina. Enough? Yes enough.
As always, more to come.