Francis Faye Culp Clark
“Those are Momma’s glasses,” I said to myself.
I was digging through an old box in the garage, rummaging through old letters, faded photographs, artifacts of an earlier time.
There they were--thin gold octagonal wire frames, around slightly scratched bifocals. Beside them was a Mothers Day card colored on torn, faded construction paper by a little boy named Terry. There were yellowed photos of a young woman and friends in flapper dresses, old cars, brittle brown envelopes with three-cent stamps and hand-writing scribbled on them, postmarked in Texas in the 1920s and 30s.
|Mom, with her first five grandchildren--Travis, Dallas, Becky, Derrick, Vance|
There are days like that, family reunion days. You sit and visit with people you’ve known for years, watching them grow older. Some with walkers, some with oxygen tubes, kids and grandkids and great grandkids scrambling around, people feasting on a smorgasbord of food and faces and family.
And then you think about them watching you grow older...like the stuff that spills out of an old box. A guest book of a wedding or a funeral, scribbled family history notes with dates of births and marriages and deaths of brothers, sisters, parents, aunts, uncles, children. Tears of memories in small items like a tiny black leather coin purse stuffed with a black and white photo of a young woman, carried by your mother 70 years ago.
Certificates of membership, graceful handwriting you immediately recognize...and the boxes they’re crammed in. Old magazines, newspaper clippings.
|My brother Jerry and I at the Culp|
reunion a month ago.
Years and memories are like children, the more you have the fuller your life becomes.
I picked up Momma’s glasses and looked through them briefly, and they gave me a new outlook on all those boxes in our lives.
*My brother Jerry and I will meet at Mom's grave in Waurika, OK., tomorrow, plant some real flowers, and remember. It has been so long.