I’ve mentioned that this blog is not my first rodeo… er, blog. Before this blog space, I probably wrote hundreds of posts over the course of three years (or so) and five blogs (or so) on Google and/or WordPress.
As I’ve also mentioned, I’m a purger of all but food, and most of my early blog posts were victims of those purges. All these years later, I have a folder with a handful of entries from my very first blog, “The Gratitude Zone”. It was a place of – you guessed it – gratitude and the few posts I kept were about people I am grateful for. Some had already passed away… two others have passed away since then. One decided I was no longer worth the trouble. Most I see in person very rarely. But the love – oh, the love – is always there. I read them every so often to remind myself of how blessed I have been.
There are some other posts that I now wish I’d kept. I’ve toyed with the idea of trying to recreate them because they were important and special. I have no idea why I felt the need to delete them, seriously.
One was about my sweet grandmother, we called her Nana, and Buffums, a department store that anchored my favorite outdoor mall as a child. There was a trolley that took Nana, my sister and me to buy summer canvas shoes for our annual childhood camping trip with our grandparents. *bliss* Lunch first at Buffums, a lovely restaurant on the top floor, with high booths and little tables … and the most delicious date nut bread and cream cheese finger sandwiches. There was also the Monte Cristo, my most favorite (of all time!) guilty pleasure. It was french toast, stuffed with ham, turkey and swiss cheese, deep-fried, served with fruit preserves and powdered sugar. Pardon my language but… OMFG! The entire store felt special, from gleaming glass doors to high-gloss, white, marble floors to high-end shoes and cosmetics, crystal, china sets, and diamonds.
There was the memory I called “The Birdcage” about our trips to a cabin at the beach (actually, a mobile home). I could go into a whole wonderful description of the sights, sounds, and scents, including Spam, that hideous meat in a can that somehow tasted fantastic grilled with eggs outside in the salt air! The birdcage reference is the best part of the story – and like I say, there are many wonderful parts! The person who said it had one of those alliterative names but I’ll just call him Jamie. I was in my late teens and he seemed pretty old to me but was probably in his 50s (Egads! LOL). We were outside at night, sitting in a circle with drinks… and Jamie had always had “a few!” of the adult beverages. He looked into the sky, which was filled with stars. He said something like, “It’s like a birdcage. I imagine God puts a cover over us at night and those are the holes in the cover,” which sounds way less profound than it did to me then. But you get the gist. It was a beautiful moment that I’ve never forgotten. Ever since… the stars are little pin-prick holes in the black velvet cloth that God covers us with at night, you know?
There were stories about Boaz (Bo), my most beloved Great Dane (my first as an adult and I’ve had several since). My favorite memory is about the Hot Air Balloon Festival. The first year, I saw the shadows going over the house and ran outside to check it out. Wait! Where was Bo? Turned out, he was against the fence, backed up against it, inching along, shaking. This huge, beautiful dog was scared to death of those flying balloons. I had to coax him into the garage. Poor guy.
I also talked about Bo’s girlfriend, who we adopted from a rescue later. Her name was Naomi. Bo and Naomi were a couple. No doubt about it! When Bo died (from bloat, of all things!) Naomi refused to leave his side. It was beautiful and heartbreaking.
There are my parents, going out to a party, my mother in peach chiffon and smelling of Arpege perfume. Dad, so tall and handsome, bringing home take-out dinner for my sister and me… a special treat … along with Miss DeSanto, our babysitter. She was older, not a teenager, and about the same height as I was. She was sweet and quiet, which, in my mind, meant I could coerce (i.e. intimidate) her. Sometimes, it even worked.
There was my grandfather, who’d watch me climb the tree out front and I’d have to give him a big hug to get my box of Cracker Jack that he’d hidden in his pocket. He was the best, best hugger of all time.
There was Tess, my first cat and friend in Canada, a beautiful tortoiseshell with a caramel toe and big ears, who held my heart carefully and patiently while I cried into her fur.
I have a million memories and stories to go with them. Recreating them is impossible, I realize.
I guess I’ll call these my new memories, saved here for now and ever. Because this blog is my forever-blog. In fact, I suspect it will be my legacy.