Melissa Ramos' Keepsake

Melissa Ramos wrote a story about one of her keepsakes—a necklace her sister gave her when her grandfather died.

Melissa Ramos is a young writer who attends Heritage Middle School in Ringgold, Georgia. After my visit to Heritage earlier this year, Melissa sat down and crafted a story about one of her cherished keepsakes—a necklace.

I'm so impressed with young writers like Melissa. They have such a fresh way of looking at the world and a wonderful way with words and phrases. If there is one thing that I wish every young writer believed, it is simply this—You are so much better than you think you are!

I hope you enjoy Melissa's story, and I hope it inspires you to think about one of your own keepsakes. Where did it come from? Why is it special? What memories does it hold? Write the story of your keepsake on paper and share it with others. 

Melissa wrote about a necklace—a reminder of her grandfather's death and the kindness her sister extended to her. Here's Melissa's story titled, "Believe."

My family and I were in the car talking about how much fun we had at the beach. Our faces were as red as ripe tomatoes. You could still smell the salt water of the ocean.

My mom was driving which was very unusual. Then my dad, with a serious face, said he had something to tell us. I knew by the way he'd been acting that something was wrong—he wasn't about to tell us that we'd won the lottery. It only took him a minute to say one sentence, but it felt like an eternity.

"Your grandpa died this morning," he said.

Those five words quieted us all—as if the sentence took our voices away from us.

I couldn't believe what my dad had said. At that age, I'd never lost someone so important to me.

I don't remember crying when my dad told us the bad news. It just didn't register in my mind that I would never, ever see my grandpa again.

Three days later, which went as fast as a turtle crossing the world, we attended his funeral. That day was the day I understood that my grandpa was gone forever, and that he would not be coming back. I burst into tears.

My sister saw me and gave me a necklace. The necklace has a cross, a white pearl , and a circle inscribed with the word, "believe."

She told me each item on the necklace has a unique meaning. The cross means my grandpa is with God. The white pearl is going to wash my sadness away. And the little circle with the word, "believe," meant that everything was going to be okay—that I just need to trust that God has better plans than I do.

My sister always used to ask me: Do you want to make God laugh? Then tell  him your plans.

And that's how a simple five-dollar necklace became as valuable as a diamond to me. I wouldn't sell it for a million dollars!

—Melissa Ramos, Heritage Middle School

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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

Thanks for sharing your beautiful story, Melissa. I hope you continue writing. Believe in yourself—you are already a great writer.

I hope that Melissa's story inspires you to share your stories behind your keepsakes. Give it a try. You are a better writer than you think. 

For more stories about keepsakes, check out the stories on this blog or pick up a copy of Project Keepsake. The last chapter of the book takes you step-by-step through the process of writing your own keepsake story. 

Kimi Carter's Keepsake

Pictured is the music journal from The Decemberists. Kimi Carter shares a keepsake story about a journal.

Earlier this year, I worked with several students at Ringgold's Heritage Middle School and encouraged them to write stories about their keepsakes. After my visit, Kimi Carter, a gifted student who attended one of the classes, drafted a story about a journal and sent it to me.

I love the action in her story and can see her bolting through her house trying to rouse all the sleepy heads in her family. Her words are filled with such joy.

Here's Kimi's keepsake story, "The Journal." Enjoy!

I woke up on the warm side of the bed—my face hot and my body sweating, but my feet, which weren’t under the covers, were freezing.  I looked over and checked the time: 6:43 a.m. 

"Am I too late?" I thought, "or am I too early?"

I got up anyways and darted up the stairs to my brother’s room.  

“Jacob! Jacob! Wake up! It’s Christmas!” I exclaimed, all the excitement in my voice exposed.

“Kimi, go back to sleep,” he groaned into his pillow. “The presents will still be here when you wake back up.”

I got the same response every year, but each year I continued to wake him up enough that he couldn’t go back to sleep.

“I’ll be down in a second,” he finally gave in. I grinned and ran back down the stairs, bursting into my sister’s room.

“Katie, it’s Christmas!” I woke her up. I usually got a better, more exciting response from her.

She sat up and rubbed her eyes.  She yawned and stretched, looking over at me. “Have you woken Mom and Dad up yet?” she asked.

I shook my head. “It’s your turn this year.”

She sighed and stood up. I ran into the living room and saw the stockings lined up in front of the tree, just as they are placed every year on Christmas morning.

“Santa came!” I grinned excitedly.

Mom and Dad stepped out of their bedroom and watched their 11-year old daughter jump for joy.

Christmas was always special to me. Everything felt like it was happier—more magical.  I knew that one day that magic would fade as I grew older. But on this day, it was still there while we were digging through our stockings that the fat man brought us. 

After my brother and sister opened their stockings, I didn’t expect much: socks, shampoo, undergarments, some candy maybe.  I pulled out a few of those things, but I wasn’t disappointed at all.  I dug through the socks and underwear and shampoo and found a very unexpected item.

“What is it?” I asked, flipping through the blank pages of a black, sparkly book.

“A journal, I suppose.” Mom smiled. “Or a songbook.”

“Maybe Santa noticed how much you talk about Taylor Swift and her writing and he got you a songbook,” dad suggested.

I examined it for a second, and then smiled. “I like it.”

Four years later, I sit on my bed flipping through the crowded pages of a beat up songbook.  Every page is filled with rhymes about life and love and loss.  It holds my thoughts, my emotions, and my secrets.

The Christmas present I received four years ago is now my best friend.

—Kimi Carter, Heritage Middle School

Thank you for sharing your keepsake story with me, Kimi, and most of all, keep writing and sharing your stories. You're a natural! I look forward to seeing you in the future—as you walk to the stage at the Grammy's to accept a songwriter's award. Keep storytelling alive!

Biscuit Bowls and Conversations

Cheryl Parham is a middle school educator I happened to meet while peddling books at the Prater's Mill Country Fair back in October of last year. She stopped by the authors' tent and talked to me and Janie Dempsey Watts for a few minutes about our books and keepsakes. A few weeks later, she invited me to come to her school and talk to her students about the writing process.

Cheryl Parham shared a story about her mother's Jadeite biscuit bowl. Read other keepsake stories in Project Keepsake.

And so in February, I spent three fun days working with teachers and students at Heritage Middle School in Ringgold, Georgia. I explained my method for writing keepsake stories and encouraged them to write their own stories. Some did, and in the next week, I will feature a few of their stories on my blog.

But I start with Cheryl's story about a Jadeite biscuit bowl. As I read it, I could see the wrinkled hands of both of my grandmothers working dough into buttery biscuits. 

Don't know what Jadeite is? It is a stain- and heat-resistant, milky green glassware that was popular in the 1940s and 1950s. It was commonly sold in dime stores. Sometimes, a bag of flour or oatmeal would include a piece of Jadeite dinnerware in the bag. Wanting to collect more pieces, consumers—like Cheryl's mother—would loyally continue to buy the product brands featuring Jadeite dinnerware. 

I love Cheryl's story titled, "Mama's Biscuit Bowl." What do you think? Leave a comment.

“Mama, guess what happened to Sharon at school today. A bird pooped on her head. Out of all of us kids on the playground, the bird pooped on Sharon’s head. We laughed so hard at her.” 

Mama just smiled as she continued to knead the biscuit dough. Nearly every weekday night you would find me perched on the counter rattling off about my day at school as Mama stood at the counter and made biscuits. I knew the routine by heart. She would get the biscuit bowl from the cabinet. With the flour and sifter already in it, she would set it on the counter, get a snuff glass from another cabinet, walk to the refrigerator and fill that glass half full of milk and then stop by the sink to fill it the rest of the way with water. Our time to talk would then begin.

 Mama was all mine during those years. I was the youngest of eight children, but the closest to me was seven and a half years older. Three of my sisters were already married by the time I was born. The other four were working on it. I grew up—just mama and me. 

As I watched and talked—mostly talked—Mama would sift the flour, hollow out a hole in the middle of the flour, and then scoop three fingers full of Crisco into the hole. After pouring the glass of milky water in as well, she would begin to knead.

“Why are girls so mean? I think I would rather play and talk to the boys at school instead of the girls. They talk about me all the time.”

“People only talk about you when they’re jealous of you,” she explained. “I wouldn’t worry about it if I was you.”

The kneading was done and now she was rolling the dough in soft balls in her hand. I continued to mull over my thoughts as she patted them flat and spaced them equally in rows of three in the bread pan that she had already greased with another scoop of Crisco.

“Mother, I was soooo embarrassed today!”

“Well, what happened?”

“It was very quiet in English class. Everyone was working. I sneezed and pooted at the same time. You should have heard everybody laugh at me. My face was blood red!”

“What did the teacher say,” she asked with a huge grin.

“She didn’t say nothing. She just looked at everybody. They all made fun of me in the hall though."

“Oh well, it will be alright,” she said.

By this time, the biscuit bowl with sifter had been returned to its place, along with the Crisco. Mama would open the oven door from time to time and check the biscuits by touching them. She knew when they were done by touch. She would pull those beautiful, lightly browned masterpieces from the oven and pour them onto the plate so that they folded over into a perfect stack. I never figured out how she did that.

There were so many conversations. So much of my junior high and high school life was shared over that Jadeite biscuit bowl. I could go on and share the “facts of life biscuits,” “the how do you get saved biscuits,” or the “why I cussed the softball coach biscuits,” just to name a few. Almost every mama lesson I remember was learned in the kitchen, and most of those were while making biscuits.  No matter the topic of the day, the setting was the same—me on the counter and Mama making biscuits.

Years later, after my Daddy died, Mama wasn’t able to live by herself. It was not necessary to take her homemaking items with her so she went ahead and gave all of her children the things they wanted. All of the “Mama, can we have this or that when you die” things were being dispersed. The biscuit bowl had to be mine. None of my sisters argued with me over it because it did not hold the memories for them that it did for me.

The biscuit bowl has been retired from service now and holds a special place in my dining room. Not too terribly long ago, I learned that Jadeite is considered an antique and that you can find bowls like Mama’s in antique stores for about $50. That may not sound like a lot but considering it was probably bought new for a few bucks fifty or sixty years ago, that it is a pretty good rise in value. Nevertheless, it is, and will always be, priceless to me.

—Cheryl Parham, 2014

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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

Thank you again Cheryl for inviting me to Heritage Middle School. I enjoyed my time there, and I hope that I inspired several young writers. Maybe they will put their pens to paper and begin their writing journeys early. I hope! And thank you for sharing such a lovely keepsake story with me and with Project Keepsake readers.

Do you have a keepsake? If so, share its story with friends, family, and the world. Keep storytelling alive. If you don't know where to start, consider buying a copy of Project Keepsake. The book's fifty-five short keepsake stories are examinations of why we keep the objects we keep. The last chapter takes you through the process of writing your own story.

To order a signed copy, click the link on the right. Shipping is free. Or you can download the book in electronic form from Amazon. Happy reading! Happy writing!