One third of the way there…woo-hoo! It’s only taken me mumble-mumble-mumble to get here!
On the heels (pun intended) of my last post, it’s only fitting that an object representative of me should be my trainers (running shoes). The ones pictured below were the first pair of proper running shoes I ever bought. They were purchased at a running shop in Harrogate, where I found out I’d been running in shoes that were, most-decidedly, too small for me to run in.
When it was time to replace these (don’t ask how long I owned them before I replaced them…it’s slightly embarrassing), I still stuck with a pair of Brooks.
I am disgustingly, dangerously behind on this project that I love. I’ve let my blog collect dust. A lot of dust. More than you can find on top of Marcus’ dresser (if that’s possible…but in my defense, the dresser is tall and I am not).
But I always come back. There is always this outlet to share who I am, what I’m doing, what’s going on. A public journal. For that reason, there are some things that don’t make the cut when I’m deciding what I can and cannot share with the world. What stories are mine to tell and which are the girls’. I don’t worry so much about how I appear and being judged, but I try not to cross that invisible line that I’ve drawn as a sometimes-blogger.
For those reasons, object #32 is the blog, which has had various formats over the years, been used twice a day or twice a year, and still remains an important part of who I am and what I do.
Object 30 is something I’ll have with me forever, but I just got yesterday. My first tattoo!
I never, never in a million years thought I’d be the tattoo type. But tattoos have definitely become more acceptable in society (much to the dismay of some, I suspect) in the past decade. While I’m not sure I’d ever be the girl with a full-sleeve, I thought about this tattoo for almost a year and absolutely, totally love it. It’s full of meaning for me, and I’m totally thrilled to have it with me always.
3 daughters, one of three myself, and turn it on the side and it’s a lowercase m for my husband and my maiden name. It’s everything that matters most to me in the world. It might be small, as tattoos go, but it has big meaning.
Maryland crabs. Enough said.
I made this when I was a little girl. I remember my dad taking my sister and I to a craft store, where we got to pick out the materials, paints, glue, and everything we needed. Kiki gave hers to Nanee and Poppy, and mine went to Grandma and Granddaddy.
For as long as I can remember, this hung in their kitchen. As I got older, I remember thinking it was so absurd. I forgot to paint the mouths on some of the bears. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t go with anything.
It was also a reminder of the argument Kiki and I had at the time, over who’d give which one to which set of grandparents. We’d both wanted to give ours to Nanee and Poppy. I’m not even sure why. As kids, maybe we saw them as the “fun” grandparents. We had to be quieter at grandma and granddaddy’s house. We didn’t get to watch as much tv. There was no air conditioning (the horrors!).
In the end, I simply gave mine to Grandma and Grandaddy. It didn’t really mean anything to me, anyway.
But it meant something to my grandparents. I had done it. Me, one of 15 grandchildren, had made it for them. And they didn’t take it down until Marcus and I bought our first home and they gave it to us.
Now, I can’t imagine my house without it. Time has taught me so much. About love. Faith. Family.
My Grandma died on Thursday. She’s meeting my grandfather in heaven, of that I’m sure. And they’re so very, very welcome there.
But she…they…are missed more than I can ever put into words. There are no favorites anymore. There is only love.
Yesterday my family and I attended a BBQ not far from the beach house my grandparents owned when I was a child. On a whim, we drove a little bit out of the way to see the old house.
I was so surprised to see it, and all of the changes that had taken place there over the years. Gone is the wraparound screened-in porch, there’s a large second story where there was once none. It’s yellow. It’s all wrong.
I snapped a picture and we drive away. Marcus asked me what was wrong, and I burst into tears. Everything. Everything was wrong. The house wasn’t right. My grandparents, both older now and in declining health, aren’t right. The passing of time felt wrong. Nothing was right.
My parents, divorced now but both with hundreds, thousands, of memories of the house at Breezy Point were quick not reminisce, pointing out all the wonderful things that happened there. Those should be the focus. They’re right.
But I still look at this picture and everything seems wrong. Object 27 is this house…but moreso, it’s the lifetime of family memories that took place in this house. And that isn’t wrong. It was, it is, so very right.
A quarter of the way there…wahoo!
This is my first (pitiful) attempt at a sock from 2008. It’s pretty atrocious. It’s too small. It’s mate is missing. The toe is twisted because I thought I could just do the decreases any old place I pleased. My stitches are twisted because I was still knitting backwards. I never weaves in the ends.
But I wore them with pride. I still would, if I had both of them. They were a case of sheer sticktoitiveness. They were hard.
I’ve knit dozens of socks now. But I still keep this lone sock as a reminder of where I started.