The cast of "Rumplestiltskin" (a neighborhood production)
This picture is a story for another time. It does, however, represent a piece of what I had growing up. And that is really what "The Gift" is all about.
As I pulled into the drive I spotted the box leaning against the garage door. The name on the return address simply said, 'Jennifer'.
Growing up, she lived two houses away. We were a neighborhood of kids, with moms that stayed home and cleaned and baked and took care of us. That's the way it was back then. We all played together, after school, on weekends, most every day. We called each other's mothers by their first names. We knew each others phone numbers by heart. When it was time for supper, mothers rang bells, triangles or just plain hollered and we would know it was time to head home. We raced our bikes up and down the street. We played "kick the can" and "Red Rover". We jump roped, double dutch, and sometimes moms would even join in. There were times that we were mean to one another. Unkind words that make me cringe today. It was not the way our parents brought us up. Somehow we got past those times. No one moved away. Everyone lived their childhood years in the same house. Our parents were lifelong friends. Not just one family but many. Years passed, we grew up, got married, moved away, had kids of our own. The parents remained, friends still but now with only memories of their childrens' laughter echoing in empty rooms.
I set the box on the table and slit the packing tape that secured it. Opening the lid, I noticed
the floral tissue carefully protecting the contents with a bow, and a card with my name written on the envelope.
The card reads:
"Thinking of you on this Mother's Day"
Love,
Jennifer
Inside the wrappings is a pillow, handmade, with a photograph of my mother taken last summer as she sat on the tree swing at the Cape. Her dog, Trisha, by her side. It is one of my favorite photos of her.
My first Mother's Day without my mother.
The tears welled up in my eyes. I cried, but not so much for my mother who I miss terribly.
I cried for what used to be. I cried for the friendship of neighborhood kids, growing up together and understanding what we had was special. I cried for all that we had back then and all that we can never have again. I cried for all the kids who never knew the special times that we had, growing up in Colonial Acres. Growing up in a neighborhood of lifelong friends. The gift she sent was so much more than the pillow she had lovingly made. Those were the tears I shed.
I cried because she thought to care. I cried because she understood, too. All that we had, and all that we have lost.
Growing up, she lived two houses away. We were a neighborhood of kids, with moms that stayed home and cleaned and baked and took care of us. That's the way it was back then. We all played together, after school, on weekends, most every day. We called each other's mothers by their first names. We knew each others phone numbers by heart. When it was time for supper, mothers rang bells, triangles or just plain hollered and we would know it was time to head home. We raced our bikes up and down the street. We played "kick the can" and "Red Rover". We jump roped, double dutch, and sometimes moms would even join in. There were times that we were mean to one another. Unkind words that make me cringe today. It was not the way our parents brought us up. Somehow we got past those times. No one moved away. Everyone lived their childhood years in the same house. Our parents were lifelong friends. Not just one family but many. Years passed, we grew up, got married, moved away, had kids of our own. The parents remained, friends still but now with only memories of their childrens' laughter echoing in empty rooms.
I set the box on the table and slit the packing tape that secured it. Opening the lid, I noticed
the floral tissue carefully protecting the contents with a bow, and a card with my name written on the envelope.
The card reads:
"Thinking of you on this Mother's Day"
Love,
Jennifer
Inside the wrappings is a pillow, handmade, with a photograph of my mother taken last summer as she sat on the tree swing at the Cape. Her dog, Trisha, by her side. It is one of my favorite photos of her.
My first Mother's Day without my mother.
The tears welled up in my eyes. I cried, but not so much for my mother who I miss terribly.
I cried for what used to be. I cried for the friendship of neighborhood kids, growing up together and understanding what we had was special. I cried for all that we had back then and all that we can never have again. I cried for all the kids who never knew the special times that we had, growing up in Colonial Acres. Growing up in a neighborhood of lifelong friends. The gift she sent was so much more than the pillow she had lovingly made. Those were the tears I shed.
I cried because she thought to care. I cried because she understood, too. All that we had, and all that we have lost.
My mother wrote on the back of this photo
Cheryl Ann May 1957
The smile on my face says it all. This is how I spent my days growing up in the neighborhood. Happy times. Growing up in Colonial Acres. A neighborhood to remember.
2 comments:
oh no.. is that the infamous drain behind you? i should send you the pic mother took a bit ago of the sunken drain to show the town!!!
yes it was the best growing up in colonial acres...still very much in my blood :-)
and it may stay in your blood for a long time to come...you will become the new roots.
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