Borrowed Heartbits: Oliver Wendell Holmes

Oliver Wendell Holmes was part of the literary elite during the 19th century, a group of poets and writers who shaped American literature as we know it. Think Emerson, Thoreau, Poe... writers whose work and abolitionist sentiments grabbed at the heart of my most recent heroine, Elsie Boswell.

My yiayia passed away almost four years ago. But the memories that keep dancing in my mind are from decades before. If I close my eyes and think long enough, I can smell the simmering butter from her kitchen door, mixing with the scent of saturated leaves and overgrown grass surrounding the red bricked house as I hunted fireflies. 

My memories are only a stilled moment away.

I breathe in deep the perfume of my yaiyia's cold cream and her laundry detergent and the settled scent of a well-cooked meal hours past, while I sit in 2018 with moisturizer, unscented detergent, and an unpleasant lingering of last night's take out. Yet, something triggers, coaxes my brain to trip and fall into the nostalgia of a warmer instance.

The memories enticed by smell, have been a catalyst for nostalgia beyond my own walls. These past days have brought word that a respectable first lady has passed, and that WWII vets are quickly leaving us behind for a heavenly existence, I have been overwhelmed with a longing for things of old. Maybe it's my mid-life blip of a crisis slinging my own mortality around to mourn the precious moments gone by, the loss of story-telling, and remembering, and the never forgetting. Not only did my yiayia conjure up warmth for us in her tiny home, but she was a prevailer, a hero who escaped Nazis and started life anew in my homeland. So many stories of those who were brave, so many testimonies silenced with the last breath. I fear that remembering is losing its traction against the terrifying future, as witnesses to all the history are leaving us. 

Even so, I will not forget. I think of my own heroes that printed upon my heart as a child, rendering my tiny part of this breathtaking whole that is humanity. What thread my life is in this great tapestry! How much I wish that I didn't focus on the knots and frays, but the secure stitchings of all my grandparents offered. I shall hold all close now. I shall treasure it all the more. And as I sit and breathe in deep, welcoming the memory, the scent of times gone, I am delighted to stumble upon this affirmation:

"Memories, imagination, old sentiments...are more readily reached through the sense of smell than through any other channel." 

Mr. Holmes has blessed me today with this borrowed heartbit. He has offered truth to what I've pondered so very much in these steps tracing back to a time long gone, now stirring aromas in my heart. I pray that we never forget those who've gone before us, and fought the good fight, raced and won, and grew us up and out to a world that needs our pasts to build thoughtful, secure futures--without forgetting.

That went so fast, Lord

“That went so fast, Lord,” I exclaim as I go through papers and drawings and knick knacks of a 4th grader turned Freshman in high school. 

“In.a.blink.” 

I hated that saying when I was in the throes of toddler chaos and colicky newborns. Looking back, it is all a blur, all a mode of survival. But now, the truth of it is so devastating, so painful, when I discover how i had been so tempted to blink away the moments and get to the easier part. Too many blinks, and now it’s all being packed up in plastic bins to be gone through by daughter-in-laws and grand children. 

Ugh, my mama heart hurts. 

Packing up handwriting exercises and art projects, I realize how much of that little boy I have forgotten...and how too many moments slipped by without savoring, without being fully present. Life is short. 

And it’s all about the people. 

My people. 

My babies they will always be.

A Lifetime to Treasure

Ever hold something ordinary that brings you to a place hidden away deep in your memory? Ever burst into tears realizing that a time you'd thought would be ages ahead, has smacked you right dab in the middle of your present reality?

Recently, I received my inherited treasures from my grandparents' estate. My grandmother passed away a few years ago, and we just had my grandfather's ten year memorial service in January.  I've had time to mourn and process and miss them. And time to move forward in my own path of life. I've been at peace in my grief.
I must admit, there is excitement in receiving antiques. A love for history cultivates a great respect for things of old--even if they are just cobbler tools and powder horns. Even if they are hand-shaped ladles and bowls. Simple, ordinary, but treasures to me. I knew I would receive these things and excitedly opened my box.

But what I didn't expect, was to find the pictures of my children and my wedding, still trapped in the same frames my grandmother had once picked out. Our faces staring up at me reminding me that it is finished--that the smiles once gifted to them from me, and placed neatly about their rooms where I'd visit, were now being returned. A flood of emotion struck me hard. Had I really come to this far-off point in my life where all those gifts I'd given were left behind by those I'd love?

Forever placed behind glass by my grandmother.

How could I be here--grandparent-less, inheritor of stuff? How could I be here, finding the space in my own place from a tomb of a house ready to purge all that memory that was my life--my childhood--my foundation?

This is the original frame, about 2 ft
in height. A 1915 Wedding portrait.

Trinkets, early 20th century cobbler tools,
powder horns

Even now, the lump grows in my throat as I lovingly admire the new additions to my home. I guess I have grown up more than I care to admit in my forty years. I used to want to be on top of decorating trends and all the newness seen in magazines and home shows. But trendsetting on my walls and shelves is not nearly as important to me now.

A historical scene I admired as a child,
now graces my dining room

I've got a lifetime of treasures to display. 

A treasured lifetime to remember.

My grandfather inspired my love of architecture, and I always
remember these pictures in their house that now hang in my room.
And that chaise lounge in the corner is the first chaise lounge
I'd ever seen--a luxurious seat that my grandmother
had by her own bed.

Target Run Memory Maker

"Thank you for letting me go with you," my four-year old said when we pulled away from...Target. It wasn't the pool, the playground, or the ice cream shop. It was a quick run to finish up some last minute road-trip shopping.

Today was a long day of me finishing up some writing and mothering and packing six people. I tried to take a momma-break this evening aka retail therapy. But my little girl wanted to tag along, even crying big ol' crocodile tears as I got in my car.

I could have just bribed her with, "I'll bring you a surprise," or I could have ask my husband to come to the rescue and distract her... I'll admit that those are not unordinary options around here.

But, instead, I scooped her up and invited her to come with me.

And, without trying or even planning, I think we made some memories--enough so that she genuinely thanked me as we left the parking lot. I am glad she'll have the fun mommy-and-me shopping trip to remember instead of the car pulling from the drive leaving her behind.

Trust me, there will be plenty more times that I'll choose differently, but tonight I realized the need to try and keep those times balanced with opportunities to include my daughter. All too often, I try and push time along for my own desire of peace...quiet...alone time.

I know it's important. I am a big advocate of "pour into yourself so you can pour out into others." But, I'll think more carefully next time my child begs to go with me on an errand.

One day, she won't ask to go anymore, and I'll have more peace and quiet than I might never want.

Old Shoes and Broken Toys

His toddler shoes next to his big boy shoes.

Isn't it weird how material items can bring forth such deep emotional stirring? As I filter through the stuffed closets and the overflowing dresser drawers in preparation to sell the house, I come across old memories in the form of tiny shoes and broken toys. And they're not specific memories, but memories of a little toddler whom I loved with all my heart, the little boy who blessed me first as a mother. And then to think that was just the beginning, and these material items which I sadly let go of eight years later, were part of each of my sons' lives, adding color to the faint visuals that creep forth into my mind.

His fourth birthday

His ninth birthda

Cherish, I must. Cherish each inch that keeps them below my chin, because soon, I will be looking up into their maturing faces wondering where the time has gone. Yet, I already do this-- wonder where the time has gone-- and I am still looking down, nurturing and rearing.

Thank you, Lord, for the constant reminders in old shoes and broken toys. For reminding me that these moments are precious, and my hearts will one day walk away to the great wide world. One day, I'll "de-clutter" a lifetime of giggles, bruised knees, wrestling matches, snuggle wuggles, and I pray that my heart can handle the flood.

As I type this, my nine year old complains to me that he has no socks left...and I quickly respond, "go get some of mine, they fit."...they grow so fast!