Tripping down the lane
Mom recently donated my childhood bedroom furniture to Habitat for Humanity, with my encouragement. One of my jobs while I'm home is going through all the stuff that was in the dresser drawers. Like dozens of horsey books, hundreds of letters, report cards, horse statues, ribbons won at horse shoes, framed pictures of horses--my first pair of jodphurs! Green twill and fit me perfectly when I was 10 years old. My sister made me a plaid vest to go with them. I thought I was all that and a six pack.
I moved all the stuff from my bedroom to the garage, so mom's ready for the next neighborhood garage sale.
The most moving part of it was the letters. I loved seeing my grandfather's handwriting decades after he died, and the letters from Mrs. Currin and Mrs. Bigger, both deceased in recent years. I think as a child I was good at attempting grown-up conversations with grown-ups. For instance, Mrs. Morris and I had long conversations about each issue of Reader's Digest. As I moved from state to state, I had many pen pals who were my mother's friends but took a shine to me. I was so lucky to be encouraged and showered with love from so many sides. It is sad how many of those generous souls have slipped from memory, Mrs. Cauffman for instance, whom I must have met at age 4. When I moved away from Texas at age 8, she and I began a correspondence that lasted for quite a few years, but as you move around, you don't keep all of those connections going. Still, how lucky I've been to know so many thoughtful, kind women.
As a side note, David got a kick out of the comments on my report cards from my domestic science teacher, none good. I think the only domestic skills I excel at are vacuuming and folding laundry. A few skills shy of a full deck.
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