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PatchWork
by Joyce Whitis |
ScrapBooks
When I came back from Houston, after my brother's funeral, the trunk of my Mercury was packed with "things". Midway into his terminal illness, he had designated certain of his possessions for my keeping, "after he was gone." To understand why he wanted me to have his mammoth collection of scrapbooks, you might want to know what was in them. My answer would be, "everything".
Some people will leave boxes, dresser drawers, closets and storage buildings crammed with things they couldn't actually live with but at the same time simply could not bear to throw away, when they die. Unless I get really busy sorting and filing and cataloguing, that's what will happen when I go. Not only do I have my own collections, but Tom and I have inherited legacies from our relatives that have gone on to that other place. In turn these objects will gather more steam and roll right on down the line to our children, grandchildren.
My brother's scrapbooks were not unfamiliar to me as we had sat together several times as he turned the big pages and explained ticket stubs, pictures, and programs. He moved around a lot during his life including almost five years in the Army Air Force and travel to Hawaii and Guam, so it was amazing to the family that he managed to hang on to numerous items that some would have thrown away.
It had been several years since I had looked at the scrapbooks and one I had never seen at all so going through them, once I had them unpacked, was an experience filled with emotion. As I turned the pages, studied the pictures, and read the inscriptions, familiar scenes came to mind. Words spoken long ago sprang forward to be repeated and as if in a dream, that part of my life became as real as the room where I sat.
There were baby pictures, pictures of our family, cars, horses, houses, aunts, uncles, grandmothers, schools, friends. There were report cards from little schools which long ago were replaced by consolidation with larger schools. I read a letter written by a third grade teacher who had moved to another school. She was asking about other students and saying how much she missed them all. There was a tiny arrow head, found in a rock in the Red Bluffs of Hardeman County, so the inscription read. Found by Uncle Boyd in the '20's.
After the first two books, labeled on the outside simply, "Family", there was a heavy book filled with momentoes of my brother's military career. There was a big picture of the B-25 he flew in combat, "The Ingenious Genie" with the young crew standing alongside. In another book was part of that crew taken at a reunion of the 12th Air Force.
Other books included fellow musicians, 4th of July parties for which he was famous, places where he had played piano, bands, singers, and some of the more famous faces he knew.
Gardening was a favorite hobby and part of one book was devoted to scenes of lush vegetable gardens with bowls of red ripe tomatoes and eggplant that earned him a Grand Champion rosette at a local garden show.
Hours passed and housework lay neglected while I in turn laughed and then grew teary eyed reliving the past and exploring parts that I knew little about. When I finished the last of six scrapbooks, I felt really happy because it was just like I had a long visit with my brother. What a wonderfully comforting thing to leave for the family is this treasury of an individual's life and how it touched the lives of others.
I have already bought the scrapbooks. Now I must get started filling them.