My mom had 3 prized possessions when I was a kid:
1. Her sewing scissors. There were a few pairs of gray-handled scissors around the house somewhere that we could use for paper, but the orange-handled sewing scissors were an utterly sacred object consecrated for use on fabric only. To this day, I have lingering suspicions that any failure to respect the ordained purpose of those scissors was punishable by death.
2. Her Pyrex glass measuring cup. Based on the way my mom revered this object, and the way that she always referred to it by its full name ("Kids, have you seen my Pyrex glass measuring cup?"..."I'm going to make cookies. Get out the Pyrex glass measuring cup."), I honestly believed that Pyrex glass measuring cups were incredibly rare and mind-blowingly expensive. Imagine my surprise when I later realized you could buy them at the grocery store for about $3 bucks each.
Once, while washing dishes, the treasured Pyrex glass measuring cup slipped out of my hand. I watched it as it fell, in slow motion, on a crash-course with the countertop. Panicked for my life, I used my catlike reflexes in even-slower-motion, lunging my hand down to catch it. Sadly, the glass shattered first and my hand arrived second, so instead of heroically catching the measuring cup I gave a high-speed karate chop to the broken glass shards instead. This left me with a nasty bloody cut at the base of my finger that became a pretty gnarly scar. To this day, I have lingering suspicions that mom thought my near-dismemberment was barely-adequate punishment for breaking her Pyrex glass measuring cup.
3. Her Better Homes and Gardens cookbook. You know the one: Hefty, three-ring bound, with the red-checkered gingham pattern on the hardcover. Much like the measuring cup, we were trained to believe that this cookbook was dang near priceless; likely costing several years' salary to purchase.
When using the cookbook, it had to be kept in a clean zone on a separate table, all the way across the room from the countertop/ingredients/mixing bowls. You had to wash your hands before you could make a pilgrimage over to consult the book. You had to put the book away in its dedicated place in a clean dry cabinet when you were done. You dreamed of growing up and being blessed enough to have a Better Homes and Gardens cookbook of your very own someday.
Fast forward to today, when I saw this as I walked past the dumpster on my way from the apartment parking lot to the building entrance:
It was just laying there on the ground.
In the rain.
Next to the trash.
Right then, I had one of those moments of profound respect for my mother -- the many many things she's lived without, the emphasis she's always placed on taking care of her treasures, and the fact that her worldly treasures are such simple practical things.
I stopped what I was doing and brought this book inside. Warmed it up, dried it out, and gave it a dedicated place in a nice clean cabinet.
...Maybe that act of kindness will karmically make up for the time I secretly used her sewing scissors on a paper mâché art project. (Don't tell my mom about that, okay?)
1. Her sewing scissors. There were a few pairs of gray-handled scissors around the house somewhere that we could use for paper, but the orange-handled sewing scissors were an utterly sacred object consecrated for use on fabric only. To this day, I have lingering suspicions that any failure to respect the ordained purpose of those scissors was punishable by death.
2. Her Pyrex glass measuring cup. Based on the way my mom revered this object, and the way that she always referred to it by its full name ("Kids, have you seen my Pyrex glass measuring cup?"..."I'm going to make cookies. Get out the Pyrex glass measuring cup."), I honestly believed that Pyrex glass measuring cups were incredibly rare and mind-blowingly expensive. Imagine my surprise when I later realized you could buy them at the grocery store for about $3 bucks each.
Once, while washing dishes, the treasured Pyrex glass measuring cup slipped out of my hand. I watched it as it fell, in slow motion, on a crash-course with the countertop. Panicked for my life, I used my catlike reflexes in even-slower-motion, lunging my hand down to catch it. Sadly, the glass shattered first and my hand arrived second, so instead of heroically catching the measuring cup I gave a high-speed karate chop to the broken glass shards instead. This left me with a nasty bloody cut at the base of my finger that became a pretty gnarly scar. To this day, I have lingering suspicions that mom thought my near-dismemberment was barely-adequate punishment for breaking her Pyrex glass measuring cup.
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| This 2-inch scar near the base of my pinky is a testament to my failure. Forever. |
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| The owner of this bookshelf is clearly a billionaire. |
Fast forward to today, when I saw this as I walked past the dumpster on my way from the apartment parking lot to the building entrance:
It was just laying there on the ground.
In the rain.
Next to the trash.
Right then, I had one of those moments of profound respect for my mother -- the many many things she's lived without, the emphasis she's always placed on taking care of her treasures, and the fact that her worldly treasures are such simple practical things.
I stopped what I was doing and brought this book inside. Warmed it up, dried it out, and gave it a dedicated place in a nice clean cabinet.
...Maybe that act of kindness will karmically make up for the time I secretly used her sewing scissors on a paper mâché art project. (Don't tell my mom about that, okay?)
I found this on internet and it is really very nice.
ReplyDeleteAn excellent blog.
Great work!