What is it about the past that both inspires and
haunts us? As we have spent 2018 moving from
my mountain residence into this tiny 120 year old
cabin, 'tis the question I have been pondering.
I've been adamant about keeping everything
to time and place as correct as possible. I feel
beyond fortunate that so many artifacts from my
grand parents and great grandparents have found
their way to me. When I find myself holding a
wineglass my grandmother may have hoisted in
days of yesteryear, I am transported. I caress
grandfather's pipe, dust a frame from WW I, take
a bite of pie from an age old silver spoon and I
am humbled. My ancestors, my very own elders,
fought the wars, smoked the pipes, ate on the
hand painted plates and rocked in that special
chair. I still think of myself as that little girl, the
young wife and mother, that inspired teacher, a
mover and shaker of my era . . . and here I am,
nigh onto 70 years of age. When did this happen?
Will my children raise grandmother's crystal to
me when I pass? Will my grandsons rock in great
grandmother's chair? Will my unborn great grand
children break the china? Alas, I do not belong to
these new ways and days of chrome and plastic . . .
Me thinks my soul is very well suited to my sweet,
old, ancient cabin. If only the walls could talk . . .
bygone memories
sepia tone phogotraphs
ages colliding
No comments:
Post a Comment