"Now She Writes"

I have been haunting a little thrift store on Main St. in our little town almost daily. I learned my lesson a few weeks ago when a pink ceramic bowl that I'd had my eyes on was being moved every few days to a different shelf, finally sold out from under me. It was only four bucks. Dangit.

When the Bernina sewing machine showed up on a display table with it's case and instruction manual included, I grabbed it up into my arms and carried it up to the cash register. I was grinning ear to ear. Running my hand across the cool metal of the machine, waves of nostalgia came over me. At twelve years old, I learned to sew in my seventh grade home economics class; and then when I lived with my Aunt Jan and her young family for several months on an Air Force Base in Bitburg Germany, she and I went shopping to the commissary and purchased a dress pattern and some fabric for a back-to-school outfit. She strained with me as I bowed my head over her Bernina trying to follow her instructions. The pattern I'd chosen was a bit too advanced for me, and she ended up doing most of the difficult parts herself. I loved her even more for that. And I loved her sewing machine.

The other day Natalie sent me a picture of Indie sitting at a little desk she'd picked up at her local thrift shop. She texted "Now she journals".

The first time I wrote in a journal was after our family had been evacuated from our home because of a near-by forest fire in the Bandelier National Monument where my father was a Park Ranger. We were told to grab a few items of clothing and stay in town until the threat to our home was gone. We stayed a few nights with friends from our church. A couple of days after we'd settled in to our new temporary living situation, Mama handed me a small spiral notebook. "I want you to write down your thoughts and feelings about what has happened this week so you'll never forget." To this day I swear I can even remember the smell of the thick smoke and the comfort of knowing that since we were all together as a family and had our dog and cats that was all that mattered. I think I still have that little notebook. I haven't spent much time in my own childhood box of keep-sakes, since for years I've been focused on saving things for my seven children's boxes.

I have been pretty consistent about journaling. Mama bought me a hard-back journal when I was a young teen-ager. On Sunday's with no t.v. watching allowed, she'd have us all get our journals out and call us to gather in the living room. We could either sit and stare at the blank pages, stare at each other, the walls or, inevitably, take pen or pencil to paper and get it over with.

Occasionally she'd ask us if we'd like to go a few pages back and share with each other anything we'd written. That was my favorite. A little piece of each family member's heart or mind given to the rest of us.

I even wrote about the day Dave and I met. September 19, 1982. Even my being only seventeen I just knew. Love at first sight? Yes.

During my many years of pregnancies, breast-feeding, toddlers, teens, and sleepless nights, my journal writing dropped off to mostly nothing. We didn't have a PC for years, and even if we did, I wasn't computer literate enough to even know where or how to write down my thoughts. My 35 mm camera was the most convenient way for me to document the life of my family. Sometimes I wish I could go back time; I'd force myself to write at least on Sundays when things were slightly less hectic. Unfortunately, I think sometimes the sheer exhaustion of motherhood in all it's stages made journaling seem more of a task than a release.

Tomorrow will be my mama's birthday. "You're going to write a book someday honey." If I had a dollar for every time she's said that to me, I'd have been able to buy a brand new Bernina.

Several days before she passed away, she'd been admitted to the hospital for pneumonia. Antibiotics and oxygen had temporarily made her feel so much better. Stopping by a bakery to pick up a couple of her favorite bear-claw Danish pastries, I went to visit her. She had color in her cheeks and sat up in bed, her cute thin legs dangling down from where we sat side by side. "I wrote a blog post last night Mama, about how you used to come into my bedroom late at night after I'd already gone to sleep and you'd turn my clock radio on to "Mystery Theater Presents". Her eyes lit up. "Oh my goodness, you're right!" "Read to me what you wrote!" She nibbled on her flaky pastry. I said, "But Mama. I like it best when you read to me." She asked me to hold her Danish and hand her my phone so she could read my screen.

As she started to read, I let myself bask in the sound of her voice and be carried away to a time where we were not in a hospital room and she was not sick. A time when, instead, we'd lie side by side on my parent's bed, usually me on one side of her and my little brother Joel on the other. Making different voices for each character in the book, it was better entertainment than anything ever to appear on a television or movie screen. Best of all was when something was funny and she'd laugh to the point of all three of us laughing and also to the point of her own coughing (and wheezing). She'd always have us get ready for bed first and she'd change into her own nightgown as well. Her laugh smelled clean like Colgate and baking soda. "I love you. Don't forget to say your prayers.", she'd hug and kiss us and send us to bed.

It was a magical time.

That day in the hospital was the last time she ever read to me.

Luckily, a few years ago, Taylor recorded on his phone, a Christmas Eve dinner where I'd asked Mama to read something of her choice as a Christmas message. I'm so grateful that the grandchildren who are too young to remember her or are yet to be born, will be able to, through that little video, hear their great-grandmother read a message of love, hope, and of Christ to them.

Several days ago, while on my little tour through the thrift store, I saw the most writing desk. With thoughts of things like bills from new roofing, plumbing, and all other high ticket items pertaining to a new build, I ran my hand along the top of the desk and tried to see if it wobbled at all. Solid wood, sturdy and beautiful I looked at the price and quickly talked myself out of it. If it's meant to be mine, it will be somehow.

Yesterday, like the saga of the pink ceramic bowl, the desk had moved to another location in the store. But this time, it had a new price tag of forty-five dollars. I snapped a picture of it and sent it to Dave. "I want this desk $45". Dave texted back, "We're kind of OD'ing on tables my love. And jeans. And catsup. And ketchup." (referring to the three bottles of ketchup that expired three years ago he found in the pantry the other day). Go ahead and get it and see if they'll let us pick it up tomorrow when you will have the jeep."

I think the first thing I'm going to do is get a little spiral notebook to keep in my new-to-me desk. I'm going to write that book someday Mama. I promise. But first I need to find a desk chair. I know the perfect little thrift shop to look for one.