My new home is undergoing major changes: I have all new fans in the crawl space, handsome jacks that lift the main beam, brand new, hard wired smoke detectors and new ventilation in the kitchen and bathroom. Different areas of my house have new exterior decks; the front door, the kitchen door and my patio. I have new windows, which swing in for the ease of cleaning and a charming effect in my house and a brand new, nine light kitchen door. Not the least of all this is a new patio slider fit for a home four times the value of mine. Iíve had the Midas touch, here, and itís beautiful.
Thereís just one little item that wasnít included in my reconstruction planÖ a little tin breadboxÖ itís something I bought when I was on the lam from the racket around here. It has a white background that supports a field of daisies, the trim is yellow, rusty, dented and harbors too many memories to elaborate. I packed it home from the local antique shop; it was only nine dollars but its a million in memories.
Of all the things that sat in my motherís 1950 style kitchen, the tin, daisy silhouetted breadbox; beat up by the use of six children and frequent scrubbing, stood out among all those treasures. Mommaís home-baked goodies resided there along with Wonder bread, soft and pliable, for mustard sandwiches and anything else I desired of it.
Miracles appeared out of that box and challenging me to memories is one of them.
I had a falling out with my mom- slow but sure I pushed and backed myself away- it was a fifty-five year accumulation of a girl that couldnít have her way.
You will make many things of what I have said here; for clarification, I hadnít had anyone there but me in the first place, and I was classified the maid in that house and my step-fatherís personal objective.
I suppose I have become hard-nosed from trauma and neglect in my life, and I find that possibility a sad reality for a woman that loves deeply.
The breadbox enjoys my childhood. The accumulation of memories there will not allow noisy energies of less than I expected to interfere with the most important memories of my life. My loving mother, hardworking, tender, giving and too willing to please the wrong man, depended on a loving daughter to hold her hand in old age. The sight of that daisy encrusted breadbox gives all that tenderness back to me.
Little things discarded and returned to treasures again, galvanize my prospects in life.