Memoir in Objects

From trash to treasure

It was an unwanted object, this 3’ x 6’ piece of unfinished plywood, a raw scrap destined to languish in the garage’s corner among the other project leftovers. But I saw a blank canvas.

It had been over a year since transplant surgery and improved health fueled newfound enthusiasm for creating. Nothing seemed off limits. Old furniture, terra cotta pots, the mailbox. Assorted types of paint and brushes accumulated and occupied spaces not meant for such things.

I set up a makeshift work area in the backyard and primed its surface. I started with a sunflower but it wasn’t what I wanted to paint. So why was I? Instead of abandoning the project, I gave myself a do-over.

As I painted and blended a summer sky between sunset and night, I heard my grandmother’s voice, I love who I am when I make something beautiful.

That my husband liked the finished piece of scrap artwork enough to hang it on our back porch gave the dormant artist within a nudge to keep going.

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This is the 38th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

but old photos prove it existed

At 17 I was restless. The power struggles between me and my grandparents resulted in frequent screaming matches over what felt like unfair punishments and rules. I spent an inordinate amount of time confined to my room.

Fortunately, there was a large framed painting that hung on the wall. I spent hundreds of hours staring at it from my bed, willing myself to fly through its open window and sail out over the salty marsh into the clear blue yonder. The sunhat wrapped with a billowy scarf and the fresh picked flower resting on the sill spoke of a carefree existence I ached for.

If you leave here tonight, you will never be welcome here again are the last words I heard as I stormed out the front door with a handful of belongings. That was the night of my 18th birthday. Within the year, they forgave me, but instead of moving back home, I retrieved the rest of my things, including the oversized artwork I had to wrangle into the back of my Datsun B210.

I spent the next 16 years too often carelessly unkind and also often despairing. I remained restless and in every house, every relationship, the picture hung around. It whispered promises of escape. I tried for years to conform, to be the good mother, the good wife, the person others felt I should be. I wouldn’t admit I might need help. My remedy was to run, and that piece of art represented the freedom I desperately sought.

It was 1996, another move, another run. I don’t remember taking the picture down from the wall or packing it. That was the same year I finally said yes to counseling and began surrendering my attachment to running away. I began healing.

There are no photos I can find of the artwork and I have no memory of it in any house I lived post-1996. It disappeared around the same time my need to fly through its open window into the clear blue yonder faded away.

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This is the 35th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.

December 1988

On my lunch hour, I bundle up and head to a local gift shop nearby. I wait for the WALK sign to blink and then rush across the slushy street.

Inside the shop, attached to a lighted display, a sparkle gets my attention. It’s a tiny gold angel pin with a diamond embedded in one of its wings. This would be perfect for my grandmother for her Christmas stocking.

She had more than a passing interest in angelology. From the picture that hung in my childhood bedroom of two frightened toddlers about to walk across a rickety bridge over a canyon with a glorious angel protecting them on their journey, to the sagging shelves of books on the topic, she was well versed.

I had recently finished reading a book she gifted me, This Present Darkness, by Frank Peretti. It was an interesting story, but I wasn’t sure where I stood on the subject.

With the purchase in my coat pocket, I stand on the curb at the corner beside one other shopper and wait for the WALK signal. When it flashes, I lean forward, about to step off the curb, when the man standing to my right swings his left arm out and stops me. That same instant, a car that had turned right on red, that I had not seen, rushes by, inches in front of us, and splashes icy muck over our feet.

We hurry together across the street and as the the weight of the moment lightens, I thank the stranger. We reach the sidewalk and he responds with nothing but a tip of his hat and a smile. He turns and walks in the opposite direction. I watch him for a few minutes until the spell breaks and I notice how cold I am.

On Christmas Eve, I help Grandmother attach the pin to her blouse. She’s delighted with both the gift and the validation when I tell her the story about the stranger who kept me from potential harm.

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2007

It’s been a year since Grandmother passed away. All that remains are boxes full of ephemera that need excavated and sorted. Keep or discard. The pin, its back missing, slips from between a stack of old bank statements and lands on my lap.

Since then, I’ve kept it pinned at the top of the cork board beside where I work. It looks down at me, keeping me safe.

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This is the 34th story in the Objects as Waypoints Writing Project series.