April 2003 Issue - Essay # 6
Sentimental
Old Fool
By Kathe
Campbell
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Dusting. Not one my favorite chores, but then my hay fever, not my housekeeping regimen, reminds me every week that it's that time again. I picked up my oily dust cloth and was busily wiping off precious
little granddaughter finger prints, when I decided to open the doors of
the end table. I don't know
why exactly, just a whim. My
poor old greeting card boxes were all but choking to death, telling me
in no uncertain terms that if I were to cram one more card inside, I'd
be sorry. Generally speaking, I'm not a saver. Once magazines or newspapers are read, they're out of here for recycling, but cards have always been my passion. I
fixed a sandwich and returned to the living room to arrange precious
memories into new and bigger boxes, all standing upright in the order
received, except the Christmas cards.
I suppose, I consider them rather generic, and after viewing their
sentiments of the season and updating my address book, out they go,
usually well before Valentine's Day.
Laying there quite alone, a
beauty of a card from our fiftieth wedding anniversary caught my eye.
The silken cover and the lovely sweet wishes penned by a dear one
turned on a sudden trickle of tears.
I tucked it into the anniversary place, and began to pull more
sentiments created by the Hallmarks of the world as a reminder of our
decades in all of their golden phases.
Yes, we had made it through fifty years that hadn't even been a
thought or a dream when we looked at each other that very first time.
It was magic. It was
love at first sight and it had been good.
What a nice feeling to have never had a regret, I thought to
myself. A well-meaning
friend had warned me that she had never had "words" with her
husband. I rather
bluntly responded that I wouldn't give any marriage a snowball's chance
in hell without "words."
Her marriage eventually failed while mine remained on track,
"words" and all. I ran my sleeve across my
face and plunked down on the floor.
I don't know why. Maybe
to dust, or to spiffy up the boxes and continue random selections in the
hodge podge to refresh special people from somewhere in time.
Maybe I'd pull one of Ken's letters in hopes of reminding myself
of our youthful and torrid romance.
That was a mistake. He
was born devoid of even one single love letter bone.
I haven't the faintest idea what it was inside that kept him from
setting his feelings on paper. Privacy
was his middle name, but oh, how I wished he had been a schmaltzy card
and posy guy. Both his
parents were outwardly demonstrative, and I long ago decided I must be
satisfied with just, "Love, Ken."
I wedged the letters back into their envelope knowing good and
well our kids, grands, and greats, would giggle and laugh and be
terribly disappointed that we didn't gush romantic superlatives all over
the place. Those secrets would have to remain with me forever.
Eventually I came across bits
of colored paper a little worse for wear. Many were just for me on
Mother's Days, Birthdays, Valentine's, and special days from our
children. What fun to note
their changes in handwriting and the sudden personal and loving words
not prompted by a teacher. A
few backward crayon letters conveyed their own precious thoughts in a
way that no mom could forget. And
yet, I had. I had forgotten
the little poems and sayings encircled with colorful paper flowers and
rainbows. I
recited aloud their note cards through brownie camp, college, and
basic training, until alas, my face grew flushed, and darn fool
sentimental tears dropped like warm rain into my lap. Quickly, as if ghostly
visions were hovering over me, I shivered and passed over a separate box
of sympathy sentiments. My
afternoon was turning into a massive rush of pent-up emotions, and even
though the release was leaving me contentedly fulfilled, I couldn't
bring myself to view kindly respects.
I sat quietly for a moment reflecting on the beloved mother and
father who had adopted me some 70 years before.
What a blessed upbringing I was privileged to.
I need to write more of their love story and our lives together,
a legacy only a few are privy to. Someday soon, I promised myself.
All twelve grands need to hear about it. A manila envelope appeared
from another place and another time.
It contained eight or ten old photos of my biological ancestors,
a precious keepsake from a new and loving brother.
How funny these ancients all looked, seated and standing so
stiffly as though the slightest breeze would do them in. Dark clothes, long tresses done up in buns, and ever-present
stoic features seemed to distinguished none of them from the rest of the
world. The natural mother I
had searched for well after the death of my parents, had sent me a raft
of cards and assorted pictures of her childhood and on through her two
marriages. We two red-headed
peas in a pod still sit side by side in small twin frames in my den.
She died just before our first meeting, unknowingly sending
her lovely son, Jim, to our San Francisco
reunion in her place.
A separate slipper box, way in the back of the cupboard, seemed to beckon me. It looked unfamiliar somehow, and it's no wonder. It contained "get well" and "thinking of you" cards from a recent time I preferred to forget. Yet, I had saved each and every precious card while in the hospital, after a ghastly accident took my arm. Notes from neighbors and friends meant the world to me after having been sent to arm and hand surgeons across the state for numerous surgeries. It's doubtful
that there is anything more pitiful than a homesick child at camp, but
those very feelings submerged in my life once again within this
miserable wretch. Our
Governor's prayerful phone call and messages along with our Senator's
and Congressman's well wishes were surprisingly and happily received.
Their notes and bouquets literally sent the nurses reeling.
A little organizing, canvassing, and conventions had been my only
claim to fame, after all. And,
of course, those dear nurses spent many moments
tenderly decorating my room with the plush animals from my loving
Salvation Army family, none of whom knew me from Adam in this strange
city. God had worked in
wondrous and mysterious ways those eight weeks. Suddenly, it was |
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Author's Biography Kathe
and her husband, Ken, live on a 7000-foot mountain near E-mail Kathe at
bigskyadj@in-tch.com
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Essay
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