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"This will be a night to remember!" - Templeton the Rat

I don’t have many photographs of my mother.  In fact, I doubt Ava and Maryn could describe her face.  I have a picture of her on the day she was married — 1954 — and I have a picture of her at my own wedding. Only one.  She despised posing for pictures, primarily because she was desperately shy but also because she disliked her smile.  In the few prints I have of her holding me as a baby, she looks absolutely miserable.  For years, I thought she hated being a mother.  But now I know that she just hated her teeth.

Having so few pictures of her means that I don’t have many memories.  Today, my iPhone holds at least 1,000 blurred, grainy images of my children.  Since I’m the family photographer, I’m rarely in those shots.  But on occasion, I’ll hop in the frame and stand behind the girls (to hide my other “frame”), and show every tooth in my mouth. Gap and all.  I love being with my kids. I want them to see that joy.  I want them to remember it.

One evening, my husband and I were sitting outside listening to John Tesh’s radio show, “Intelligence for Your Life.”  We laughed through the corny anecdotes and bits of strategy, such as deleting a Facebook account when searching for a job, and working crossword puzzles to avoid Alzheimer’s disease.  The girls were in the yard swinging and chatting away, arguing briefly over the cutest band member of One Direction.

“Do you think they’ll remember any of this one day?” I asked Mike.  He shrugged his shoulders.

I admit that I get a little more nostalgic in the summer than any other time of the year — Christmas included.  I guess it’s because I spent every hour with my mother in those months between Memorial Day and Labor Day, doing nothing I might add.  Back then, I knew how to sit still and be quiet.  I knew how to be content with a do-nothing day.  It was a three-month rest for a child who didn’t need it.  But in that sabbatical of sorts, I didn’t form many memories.  One day rolled into the next.  I remember spending time at Greenbrier Pool and never applying sunscreen other than a mixture of baby oil and iodine.  I remember watching my parents can vegetables from the garden.  I remember watching soap operas at 3:00.  I remember our blue, 1979 Mercury stationwagon with wood panels.  I remember the old Holiday Inn sign that lit up in vibrant colors, which I had to see before I went to sleep each night of our annual vacation.   I remember my 10-speed bike, which logged many miles through the flat, tree-lined streets of Kanawha City.  That’s about it.  But is that enough?

Mike has similar memories.  ”You hopped on your bike at 9 in the morning, and you were gone all day,” he said.  ”If you were home before dinner, it was because you wrecked and needed a Band-Aid.”

That’s it?

“Little league baseball games,” he added. “We had to go to church once a month to play on the team.”

Nothing else?

“Oh, and I remember that we were at Ormond Beach, Florida when Elvis died,” Mike announced.

Thank you. Thank you very much.

The Pinterest-pinning, Facebook-posting, Twitter-tweeting mother in me wants a perfect summer for my girls that will be remembered as long as the mind can store it.  To do this, though, I find myself spending a small fortune on memory-making activities and props, such as a membership to our neighborhood pool (and its costly repairs), and a hammock for the side porch (which I’ve never been in longer than 5 minutes).   We’ve built swing sets and wooden forts, a pergola,  and we’ve added a couple of dogs.  This past week, we purchased an outdoor movie theater.  Well, sort of:  I bought a projector and a paint tarp.   These things,  along with a few strands of solar lights wrapped around a few oak trees, povide a cozy ambiance for summer’s children.  And mosquitos.

On Monday evening, we decided to watch “Charlotte’s Web” in the backyard. I made popcorn and carried it outside, along with bottles of water and boxes of M&Ms.  I picked up the popcorn that spilled onto the ground and chased off dogs that snatched the plastic bowls right out of the girls’ hands.  I sprayed each family member with enough OFF to give them lung cancer, and I tore down spider webs that belonged to less famous and less attractive arachnids so everyone would sit without worry or complaint.  I lit citronella candles and fussed at the girls to stop flipping their hair so close to the flames. I caught the Beagle and dragged him into his crate, where he howled along with the whining Wilbur.  I threw the tennis ball over the hill at least 100 times for the Golden Retriever, which I am convinced could find anything in the dead of night.  I answered the phone twice.  I had to go to the bathroom once.

But while I was reclined in my patio chair, I looked over at Maryn, parked in her daddy’s lap munching on candy and smiling at the sarcastic comments made by Templeton, the rat.  I looked over at Ava, legs crossed and straight-faced, twirling her hair as she pondered the messages left by Charlotte A. Cavatica.  For a few minutes, everything was as it should have been. Will the girls recall any of this when they’re older? I don’t know.  I hope I’m around to hear about it, though, particularly the parts that drove me up the wall, but made the others laugh.

As E.B. White so elegantly stated, “Heaven knows anyone’s life can stand a little of that.”

 


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