Someday archeologists may dig around my residence, and my goodness, would they be in for a treat. In among the raw hide bones and unstuffed toys, they would find small balls of yarn and what appear to be unfinished knitting projects. They might wonder what kind of person lived in that home in that era wearing a sweater with all but a left sleeve, then a sweater with all but a right sleeve. I delight in how my cultural relics would confuse the future, but as I live in the present, I wonder what artifacts and relics in my possession would represent my household.
Recently, Elise told me about her class assignment to bring in a relic representing her culture. She said she thought and thought until Scott suggested she take in the church cookbook. She did and it worked very well for class discussion, as students brought artifacts such as flags and artwork. I cannot think of anything more fitting for her than a compilation of food recipes from the people who raised her.
Some of my fondest memories center around church food. As a little girl, my grandfather preached in country churches. I remember fidgeting in my seat as the aroma of fried chicken wafted up to from the musty basement to the airy sanctuary where we had to wait until the sermon concluded before heading down the creaky stairs for lunch. While Elise and Nick were growing up, our favorite night of the week was Wednesday when we shared dinner with our church family, then scattered to choir practices. I pause, as my mind floods with the joyful and warm memories of sharing those Wednesday night suppers.
Dessert was, and still is a special treat every Wednesday night when the children, young and old, converge on the sweets table as a first step before filling their plates with a meal. So many talented cooks feature signature dishes. During Miss Eulalie Jefferson’s lifetime, who knows how many people consumed her caramel pies. In one of the old church cook books, she included taking the phone off the hook before heating the sugar for the caramel in the recipe instructions.
As much as we like to think of the monumental in representing our lives, such as our job accomplishments, formidable vehicles and spacious homes, but the little details of our daily existence are what really define us. I mentioned in an earlier blog that my heart melts when my mother visits and leaves my house with a forgotten cup of cooled and overly steeped tea in the microwave.
I have a friend who introduces me to the very best books. If she recommends it, I know it will be a good read. My sister leaves a trail of knitting stuff after staying at my house and I am reminded of sitting in the living room with her, watching the kids, while knitting and gossiping. I have also been known to keep the craft tools left in her wake. That falls into the snooze, you lose category; she has good stuff.
Roger reads trail guides of trails he has never hiked, but hopes to someday. When reading trail descriptions and looking at the maps, he says he feels like he has hiked the trail. Out in the yard are two long hiking sticks the dogs have dragged off the porch from a recent hike he took with our nephew, Joey. I think archeologists may find a worn pair of boots to define one of Roger’s great joys.
The relics that define us as people or part of a culture, I believe are small in structure, yet huge in significance, as they are how we will be remembered. If those confused archeologists come upon our household in the unforeseen future, I hope they can weave a good story with the drawer of unmatched socks, box of single mittens, and of course, the knitting projects that will someday be finished.
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