We returned from a peaceful vacation in Cape May the summer of 2006 to find 4 feet of water in our basement due to a broken valve on the water softener. The electric meter was pulled so no one would be electrocuted, the Fire Company pumped out the water, an insurance agent surveyed the scene, and a restoration company was hired. It was a chaotic time and we lost just about everything in the basement: Our washer, dryer, furnace, chest freezer, boxes of family mementos, children’s books, miscellaneous storage items, my seasonal teaching curriculum, etc. were all destroyed.
I had a box of special mementos that I stored in the basement after my Mother's death. Inside the box was a beautiful hand crocheted Tablecloth. I didn't actually use the Tablecloth because it beheld so many wonderful memories of my Mother and I feared staining it.
On occasion, I would find myself drawn down to the basement, my footsteps taking me to the Memory Box. I would open the flaps on the box and touch and smell the Tablecloth longing for a felt-sense of my Mother. The Tablecloth elicited a vivid picture in my mind’s eye of her sitting at her dining room table with the crocheted Tablecloth perched on top of another solid tablecloth, the table adorned with a cut glass bowl filled with plastic fruit. We would sit at her dining room table, play cards or Rummikub, snack, and chat.
As a result of the flood, oil from the furnace seeped into the Memory Box and left the Tablecloth stained and ruined beyond restoration. How I wish I would have used the tablecloth on my own table and not stored it in a box! I would rather have ruined the tablecloth with gravy and wine stains so that each blemish on the tablecloth would have been a reminder of family fellowship right here in my OWN dining room, but instead I clutched at preserving my memories.
I am sad that I had to throw away the Tablecloth, but the joy I feel when I think about sitting with my Mother at her dining room table actually makes the Tablecloth inconsequential.
I will always possess the memories: I don’t need the possession.
August 2006
I had a box of special mementos that I stored in the basement after my Mother's death. Inside the box was a beautiful hand crocheted Tablecloth. I didn't actually use the Tablecloth because it beheld so many wonderful memories of my Mother and I feared staining it.
On occasion, I would find myself drawn down to the basement, my footsteps taking me to the Memory Box. I would open the flaps on the box and touch and smell the Tablecloth longing for a felt-sense of my Mother. The Tablecloth elicited a vivid picture in my mind’s eye of her sitting at her dining room table with the crocheted Tablecloth perched on top of another solid tablecloth, the table adorned with a cut glass bowl filled with plastic fruit. We would sit at her dining room table, play cards or Rummikub, snack, and chat.
As a result of the flood, oil from the furnace seeped into the Memory Box and left the Tablecloth stained and ruined beyond restoration. How I wish I would have used the tablecloth on my own table and not stored it in a box! I would rather have ruined the tablecloth with gravy and wine stains so that each blemish on the tablecloth would have been a reminder of family fellowship right here in my OWN dining room, but instead I clutched at preserving my memories.
I am sad that I had to throw away the Tablecloth, but the joy I feel when I think about sitting with my Mother at her dining room table actually makes the Tablecloth inconsequential.
I will always possess the memories: I don’t need the possession.
August 2006
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