 |
PatchWork
by Joyce Whitis |
It was the very first thing the kids wanted to see, right after Grandma and Granddad. During all those three -hour rides across west Texas to the very front gate of my parents' old fashioned white frame house, our kids talked,. played games, fought, ate and waited for that magic moment when they would fly out of the car into the waiting arms of their loving grandparents, and then rush into the front bedroom to see what wonders were waiting in "the drawer".
And there were many! Mama saw to it. She spent spare moments collecting items that she thought would entertain her grandchildren and dropping them into the vast bottom drawer of my old dresser. That bedroom suite was a present for me that summer of '45 when the boys came back and everybody was happy because the war was over. We rode around town in jeeps that were army surplus and spent long afternoons at the pool up in the park. It was a happy time with only minor responsibilities and I remember when I look at the bedroom suite.
I thought it was beautiful with the big dresser mirror and the brass drawer pulls and the carving that ran around the curved top. After I went off to college, there were weekends and vacations when I used that dresser once more and then there was marriage and children and the trips home were less frequent, but still that was My bedroom and MY dresser.
After my mother began collecting things for the grandchildren and dropping them in the drawer, that was the second place the kids headed upon arrival. I remember how it was when our own two attacked "the drawer". They would bend over, rear ends in the air, feet planted firmly while they tossed out little stuffed bears, a tiny doll with eyes that opened and closed, marbles missing from a Chinese Checker board, dozens of little green plastic soldiers with machine guns, an abacus that Uncle Boyd made, a wooden Colt 45 Uncle Shelby had carved and painted, toy fire engines and tractors with some wheels missing, a string ball Mother had put together and a discarded harmonica from Dad.
The flying articles from that drawer reminded me of a couple of hounds trying to dig out an armadillo but unlike the hounds, the kids eventually sat back with their reward. For Barbara it was a lovely blue Avon bottle, the strong odor of Rapture hanging in the air. Tommy always chose the little flag stapled to its popcicle stick and they were off around the room showing us their prizes.
For our kids and for the children of my sisters, there was special magic in that no matter when they came for a visit, nothing ever left that special drawer, only new treasures were added. They all knew the rules. (1) Whoever dumps stuff on the floor, puts it back. (2) Nobody is allowed to take anything from the drawer home with them. (3) Only grandparents can put anything in the drawer.
For all the years that our kids were little and we had small nieces and nephews, the mileage on that drawer was considerable. Finally, as it so happens, the children all outgrew the toys so that the drawer and its contents were forgotten.
The day my mother was buried, we opened that drawer once more. Everything was still there although there were now great-grandchildren too old to play with those things. In hushed voices the young adults gathered on the floor once again and began to take out the objects that had been resting there.
"Oh do you remember this?"
"Look-e here!"
"I can't believe Grandmother kept all this stuff."
"Oh I want this"
"I'd like to take this home to keep, to remind me you know, of those fun times when we all got together."
That bedroom suite came home with me that day. The magic drawer is still there, a sweet reminder of one more thing my mother taught me. Make a place for the children where there are special things just for them and they can play without adults directing. It cuts way down on the shouting.