Let It Be Written....
While packing up Christmas decorations this year it became clear that I really needed to buy some new totes and rescue my heirlooms from ancient cardboard boxes. Some of these treasures I can remember from when I was too small to help my mother and watched with excitement while she made our house festive.
I felt my inner Fly Lady come roaring to life as I perused the aisles for all sorts of storage ideas and items. I could envision my storage unit packed up in color coordinated totes all labeled with a computer generated tags. God it would be beautiful!
With an excited proclamation to my family that *I* the "really together housewife with a plan" was leaving for the garage to "pack things properly" I dove into the cardboard jungle. Box after box went sailing into the trash "area" (we have an area at the moment because we have completely filled the cans). Tote after tote took its place in color coordinated, stackable glory. The last box held my late mother's wooden nativity complete with a plastic, cream and gold baby Jesus and a lamb whose leg had been broken back when I was just a child. Yeah, I broke it. Sorry again mom... I carefully wrapped each piece in new tissue and placed the nativity inside the new tote. Closing the tote, still singing my own praises I reached down to toss the cardboard box away. Just as it left my hand I saw my mother's handwriting on the sides. It landed top side up so that I could see clearly the hand written notes she had written year after year. "Nativity and Poinsettas for living room 1987" "Nativity set 1965" I picked up the box and grew quite weepy. How could I throw away a box with my mothers hand writing all over it? I mean I still have her purse with her checkbook, a shopping list and other things in it. I have a spaghetti recipe in her hand writing stained with sauce. I swear that if I close my eyes and sniff the paper I can still smell her spaghetti and garlic bread and sometimes I can even hear the voices of family who would sit around the kitchen table eating that spaghetti every year for birthdays. I miss my mom.
In the future, if one were to visit my storage unit they will be in awe of how beautifully all my Christmas decorations are stored. Red and green totes a plenty. All with uniform labels and stacked neatly in rows. Beautiful, just beautiful. If one looks really close one might see an old tattered box on top of all that organization. Perhaps they will think it was just an oversight or that I just grew tired of being tidy. Never fear though, it's just my personal Ghost of Christmas Past. It's my mom stopping by to say Merry Christmas. A gift of memories and feelings in a rag tag box. It's the most beautiful of all my boxes.
I felt my inner Fly Lady come roaring to life as I perused the aisles for all sorts of storage ideas and items. I could envision my storage unit packed up in color coordinated totes all labeled with a computer generated tags. God it would be beautiful!
With an excited proclamation to my family that *I* the "really together housewife with a plan" was leaving for the garage to "pack things properly" I dove into the cardboard jungle. Box after box went sailing into the trash "area" (we have an area at the moment because we have completely filled the cans). Tote after tote took its place in color coordinated, stackable glory. The last box held my late mother's wooden nativity complete with a plastic, cream and gold baby Jesus and a lamb whose leg had been broken back when I was just a child. Yeah, I broke it. Sorry again mom... I carefully wrapped each piece in new tissue and placed the nativity inside the new tote. Closing the tote, still singing my own praises I reached down to toss the cardboard box away. Just as it left my hand I saw my mother's handwriting on the sides. It landed top side up so that I could see clearly the hand written notes she had written year after year. "Nativity and Poinsettas for living room 1987" "Nativity set 1965" I picked up the box and grew quite weepy. How could I throw away a box with my mothers hand writing all over it? I mean I still have her purse with her checkbook, a shopping list and other things in it. I have a spaghetti recipe in her hand writing stained with sauce. I swear that if I close my eyes and sniff the paper I can still smell her spaghetti and garlic bread and sometimes I can even hear the voices of family who would sit around the kitchen table eating that spaghetti every year for birthdays. I miss my mom.
In the future, if one were to visit my storage unit they will be in awe of how beautifully all my Christmas decorations are stored. Red and green totes a plenty. All with uniform labels and stacked neatly in rows. Beautiful, just beautiful. If one looks really close one might see an old tattered box on top of all that organization. Perhaps they will think it was just an oversight or that I just grew tired of being tidy. Never fear though, it's just my personal Ghost of Christmas Past. It's my mom stopping by to say Merry Christmas. A gift of memories and feelings in a rag tag box. It's the most beautiful of all my boxes.
posted by nina michelle at 1:30 PM
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