Someone Else's Keepsake

Happy Valentine's Day everyone! Today, I welcome guest blogger and buddy, David Aft, who wanted to surprise his lovely wife with a special gift and a story on this day of love. David sent his story to me last week and asked that I wait and post it today. Happy Valentine's Day, Pauli Aft!

Enjoy David's story titled, "Someone Else's Keepsake."

From time to time the spirits who look after the weather issue a perfect mid-winter day.  Sunshine animates the crisp air and a little breeze reminds you that it’s not quite spring.

It was on just such a morning that I noticed a garage sale at a small house near my office.  The purveyors were busily answering questions and collecting a dollar here, fifty cents there and generally making good-natured small talk.

One of them told me the house had belonged to his sister, who had recently passed away after a long struggle with dementia.  Hundreds of pieces of her estate were gently organized in the open carport and driveway.  As I surveyed the diverse offerings, I thought about the things we accumulate in our lives.  We accumulate experience, knowledge, insight and perhaps even a little wisdom.  We also accumulate a host of worldly goods that survive us as a collection of artifacts—a modest Rosetta stone of our earthly lives.

This notion added depth and a certain poignancy to the sale, and for a moment, I was not looking at a collection of knick-knacks and lightly used kitchen ware, but a final testament.

Amidst the possessions, David spotted a tiny replica of the Eiffel Tower.

Amidst the sprawl, a short set of metal shelves held about forty smaller items.  These seemed a little more personal and a couple of them caught my attention.  A small brass replica of the Eiffel Tower peeked out from behind a very interesting lucite paperweight from the seventies.  I asked the gentlemen working the sale about the tower, and he looked at it and told me he remembered it was special to his sister, but he didn’t know or recall why.

My imagination raced just a little, as I pictured a young woman looking at the miniature and dreaming of going to Paris.  Maybe someone had given it to her as a souvenir from a memorable week visiting outdoor cafes and museums.  Maybe it was her keepsake, a memento of a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

David and Pauline Aft posing with the grand Eiffel Tower.

These thoughts were quickly followed by an abrupt realization that those stories would never be told, as they were the provenance of a woman whose memories had left her long before her quiet demise.

I stood there and realized I was surrounded by a sea of keepsakes, de-tethered from the memories that made them special—once again, empty vessels perhaps waiting to be given root in a new imagination.

I have a friend and fellow garage sale enthusiast who told me some things are just not meant to end up in the junk pile, and I think I agree with her—sometimes a keepsake can be repurposed, with its own story and pedigree enriched by another chapter.

I purchased the tiny tower, along with the lucite paperweight from the Seventies.  I plan to keep the lucite piece at my office and give the Eiffel Tower to my beautiful wife on Valentine’s Day as a reminder of our spectacular and romantic trip to Paris a couple of years ago.  They will each enjoy life anew and join the family of keepsakes that accent our story and become, all too briefly, the keepers of our own memories.

—David Aft, February 2016 (for his wife, Pauline)

Thanks for the blog post, David. And again, Happy Valentine's Day Project Keepsake readers. Keep those stories coming, and remember, everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.

Locks of Love—Cheryll Snow's Keepsake Story

Project Keepsake celebrates objects—quilts, rings, fishing lures, pocket knives, cake pans, etc.—that bind us to powerful memories. Keepsakes can be anything—anything—that keeps memories alive.

Over the weekend, Tennessee-based writer Cheryll Snow shared a very moving keepsake story with me that hits this point home. I enjoyed her story titled, "Locks of Love." Indeed, Cheryll's story has inspired me to write about a very unusual keepsake my mother had been keeping until recently. I'll share Mom's story ("The Frozen Peas") with you soon, but for now, enjoy "Locks of Love."

Thanks again, Cheryll, and good luck polishing your manuscript. I look forward to buying and reading your book in the future.

“My mother was a simple woman, born and raised in the foothills of Ohio in the 1940’s. Times were tough, and she enjoyed few luxuries growing up. But the one thing she treasured and spent considerable time and effort on was her hair.

Mom had beautiful hair. From an early age, she loved to try out different styles and trends. Looking at pictures of her from childhood to middle age is like thumbing through a hair-styling magazine in a beauty salon.

As a small child, she sported a short pixie cut with razor-straight bangs. Then came barrettes and hair bands in grade school. As a teenager, she graduated to long brunette locks with a side part and gorgeous waves. She was rocking the Cindy Crawford look before Cindy was even born!

My mother never finished high school. At seventeen, she met my father, who was a submarine sailor in the United States Navy. After a whirlwind courtship they eloped, and over the next thirty-one years, my father took my mother all over the world and did his best to spoil her.

One of her favorite ways to pamper herself was going to a hair salon, something her family couldn’t afford when she was young. Over the years, there were pin curls and perms, bouffants and bobs, and an unfortunate wedge in the ‘80s that Mom couldn’t grow out fast enough. The one thing she didn’t do to her hair was change the color. Her natural color was a dark mahogany brown, a prettier shade than anything from a bottle, with auburn highlights in the summer from days spent on the beach and gardening in the sun. She gave in a bit however in her forties – “just a wash” – to cover those dreaded grays.

When my mother was diagnosed with brain cancer at the age of forty-eight, our family was devastated. Mom was especially dismayed when the neurosurgeon told her they would have to shave her head in the operating room. The night before her surgery, I spent some extra time with Mom, brushing her thick, luxurious hair while she shed more than a few tears.

After her operation, she woke up in the intensive care unit with a blue surgical bonnet covering her head. Once she got her bearings, the first thing she did was to yank off the bonnet and ask for a mirror. She stared at her reflection for a long time, gingerly running a hand over her bare head, careful not to touch the railroad track of staples and sutures on the right side. Then she dropped the mirror on the bed and asked us to put the cap back on.

“It’ll grow back,” I told her.

In her drug-induced stupor, the only thing she said was, “Okay.”

A nurse came into the room and handed my father a clear, zip-lock bag. “The scrub nurse in the O.R. saved this for you,” she told him.

It was my mother’s hair.

I don’t know what prompted the nurse to do that – no one asked her to do it – but I’m so glad she did. Contrary to our hopes, the subsequent chemo and radiation treatments left her with permanent hair loss, and only a few wispy strands grew back. My father spared no expense in finding my mom two of the finest wigs money could buy. But it wasn’t the same.

She lost her battle to cancer a year later. But I still have a piece of her with me – her hair. I’ve kept that zip-lock bag for more than twenty years now, wrapped in tissue paper and tucked away in a box in my bureau drawer. It may sound strange to some, but once in while I take the bag out and open in, and the scent of my mother comes back to me all over again, reminding me of everything good about my childhood and what a wonderful, giving person she was.

I know it’s not your typical keepsake. But it means more to me than the trinkets or pieces of jewelry or any of the other material possessions she handed down to me. If a keepsake’s intention is to bring back those good feelings and memories associated with that individual, then mom’s “locks of love” work just fine. ”

— Cheryll Snow

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Cheryll Snow is a wife, mother, grandmother, author, and RN. She enjoys writing, reading, gardening, travel, and spoiling her grandson rotten. 

I know you have a keepsake—or two, or three. Share your story with me and the world and help keep storytelling alive.

Project Keepsake is on sale with free shipping and handling. It's great gift item, especially for the holidays. Buy it right here right now, and get a free bookmark. 

Joe Harwell's Ring

As I browsed my Twitter feed this morning, I came across a promotional post via Southern Authors (@SoAuthors3) introducing Joe Harwell, a Tulsa-based author who writes historical fiction novels. A pinned post at the top of Joe's Twitter page (@HarwellJoe) caught my eye—a keepsake story about a ring and an Easter memory.

Joe Harwell shares a story about a ring and an Easter memory. "Funny how things fade from memory and can be brought back by the simplest things."

At the end of Joe's story he notes, "Funny how things fade from memory and can be brought back by the simplest things." That single, eloquent statement is the essence of Project Keepsake. We keep things near to us to help us remember—to help us never forget the people, places, and events in a lifetime that are sacred to us. We don't want certain memories to fade away like fog lifting from a grassy field—present one moment, then gone the next. Keepsakes help us keep those very special memories in focus.

Thanks to Joe for allowing me to reprint his keepsake story. And thanks to all of you for reading about keepsakes and the special memories they contain.

“A couple of days ago I ran across this ring that belonged to my dad among some things we haven’t looked at in a long time. I barely remember it and don’t even remember the last time I saw it. I slipped it on my ring finger and it fit, so I’ve been wearing it. Wearing the ring got me thinking about dad and an event on Easter morning 1967 came rushing back to me.

We moved into what we called the ‘red and white’ house at Fairview Crossroads off the old Cameron highway a couple of miles east of Poteau in 1966. Dad owned a lumber yard and built houses with some carpenter partners and by then I was old enough to hang out with him. Plastic plumbing pipe (PVC) was kind of a new thing back then and to save some money building the house, dad decided to do the plumbing and I helped. We’d go out to the house after the lumber yard closed and on the weekend and he and I installed all the plumbing.

On Easter morning 1967, we were up early getting ready for church when we heard a loud pop somewhere in the house and quickly discovered the connection between the plastic and copper water line leading from the hot water tank was broken. Dad shut off the water to the house and in short order was able to temporarily bypass the hot water tank to get the water turned back on. The problem was, we had no hot water for showers that morning and being a typical spring day, the temperature wasn’t cold, but taking a shower with no hot water was a real thrill.

We made it to church looking good in our Easter best without anyone knowing we’d taken cold showers. After church, we ate lunch and dad and I went to the lumber yard and retrieved the necessary items to fix the plumbing and all was well.

I haven’t thought of this particular Easter in years. Funny how things fade from memory and can be brought back by the simplest things.

Happy Easter everyone and may you have plenty of hot water for your Sunday morning shower.”

— Joe Harwell from his blog at joeharwell.wordpress.com/

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I know you have a keepsake—or two, or three. Share your story with me and the world. 

Project Keepsake is on sale with free shipping and handling. It's great gift item, especially for the holidays. Buy it right here right now, and get a free bookmark. 

Renea's Pocket Knife

A few years ago while attending a writer’s conference in Calhoun, Georgia, I met the ever-so-vivacious, Renea Winchester. I quickly learned that Renea is a writing dynamo, composing stories and books that appeal to me on a very personal level. I devoured her first book, In the Garden with Billy: Lessons About Life, Love & Tomatoes, and upon reading the last page, jumped up from the comfort of my recliner and blurted out, “Bravo, Renea, Bravo!”

Renea Winchester's keepsake story is about her uncle's pocket knife.

So, when I began my journey of collecting keepsake stories from my small network of friends, family members, and other writers, I called on her. I knew that if Renea could find time in her busy schedule to contribute a story to the project, that her story would wow me. And as expected, I was wowed. 

Renea’s story is Project Keepsake perfection. Her words embody the essence of the project—that the items we keep hold deep, powerful memories. We keep things to help us remember.

She wrote about a pocket knife—an heirloom from her uncle. Renea revealed the origin, the history, and the memories associated with the blade. Renea’s story titled, “Uncle James’ Pocket Knife,” begins on page 10 of the book. Here’s a short excerpt from her masterpiece.

“When he wasn’t working for the power company, he converted chunks of wood into beautiful creations. Using a simple pocketknife, he transformed wood into wonders doing so with an expertise I secretly longed to emulate. Back then, only boys were allowed to whittle. The same holds true today. There aren’t many women carvers.

No one in the family could have anticipated my uncle’s sudden death, or the enormous hole his home-going created.

During the spring of 2012, his daughter-in-law, Gail, honored his memory by attending Decoration Day. Instead of bringing a green bean casserole or a bucket of fried chicken, she brought a knife case filled with James’ collection.

“I thought some of the nephews might like one of his knives,” she announced.

As the boys gathered around, I whispered my request to her, “Can I pick one out?”

She nodded.

Peering into the red-velvet-lined case, I waited my turn as others selected new knives probably because they believed that the unopened boxes contained the more expensive tools.

“That’s a good knife,” one nephew said as the blade clicked into place.

“Go ahead,” I urged them secretly in my heart, “Take your knives, just leave the one I want.”

I waited my turn praying silently that the most valuable knife would remain when my turn came. With scratched silver edges and visible bits of rust, the knife I wanted had jingled with pocket change and been dumped on the dresser at the end of each tiring day. Bending my fingers around the tool, I slowly opened the blades. Testing each with my thumb, I struggled with my emotions. I could almost see James’ fingers forcing the blade into a piece of cherry. The blades—worn slick with use—were, to me, perfect and priceless.

With a pierced heart and cascading tears, I closed the knife, pressed it to my heart then said in a trembling voice, “I’ll take this one because it still bears his fingerprints. I want it because I remember him using it.””

— Renea Winchester, "Uncle James' Pocket Knife" from Project Keepsake

Most recently, Renea released Farming, Friends, and Fried Bologna Sandwiches (Mercer University Press), another rollicking read brimming with stories of life, love, and connections. Like her first literary work, the beloved Billy Albertson is front and center. Renea shares bits and pieces of her days spent with Billy and the interesting parade of friends, family, and neighbors who frequent Billy’s urban farm.

Winchester's new book is a rollicking read! Available at brick-and-mortar bookstores and online at major booksellers.

She also fuses dozens of Southern-inspired recipes into her stories. Readers learn the magic of pouring a small bag of Lance peanuts into a bottle of ice-cold Coca-Cola—a delicacy that took me back in time to my childhood. Cream-style corn. Microwaved Moon Pies. Buttermilk biscuits. She included so many Southern favorites and all are meticulously woven into her narratives. 

Thank you, Renea! Thank you for contributing your keepsake story to Project Keepsake. Thank you for being the voice of encouragement during the low points of my publishing journey—your friendship and candor sustained me. Most of all, thank you for your books that are as radiant as you are—shining a light on the things in life that are most important.

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Project Keepsake is on sale right now! FREE shipping and handling! Great gift item, especially for the holidays. Buy it right here right now, and I'll throw in a free bookmark.

Remembering Sam and Other Dogs on National Dog Day

I'm a dog person—always have been and always will be. I was born this way. Even as a child, I relished the attention of our German Shepherd, King, who sailed into bed with me on dark, stormy nights. He was terrified of thunder and lightning, and I loved cradling his huge, trembling body and whispering, "Everything's going to be okay, Buddy." One day during a particularly powerful thunderstorm, he disappeared from our backyard, and we never saw him again.

I came into this world loving dogs. Here is one of the only photos I have of me and King, a German Shepherd we lost during a thunderstorm.

Since King, there have been many other dogs I have loved and lost—Boaz, Bubby, Ink, Trump, Roxy, Shadow, and our beloved Daisy who we lost just after Christmas last year. My heart still aches for her.

Some people don't get it. There will always be those who walk among us who can't comprehend the love and bond between me and my animals—between human and dog. I feel pity for those people, because the world must be a dismal, colorless, miserable place for them to live each day without the presence and connection of furry companions.

Sue Rogers Davis understands the depth of which a human can love a dog. Two years ago, a photo Sue posted on Facebook caught my attention. The photo showed her black lab, Sweeney, riding in her car with her. I instantly recognized the expression on Sweeney's face. I've seen the same look on my own dogs' faces—the pure, unadulterated joy of riding around town with me. Sue had posted the photo as a memorial to Sweeney, who had died of cancer.

Sue's keepsake story details the relationship she had with another dog, Sam, when she was just nine years old. Sam was much more than a pet to her—he was her playmate, her confidante, her sibling. Sam played tag and other games with young Sue and her friends. He also followed her to school sometimes. But after Sam snapped at a classmate, Sue's family was forced to get rid of him. A little piece of Sue died the day she watched Sam leave with a stranger.

Young Sue wrote a poem to commemorate the events leading to Sam's removal—a poem Sue has kept for decades as a keepsake. "My Poem About Sam," starts on page 56 of Project Keepsake. Thank you for telling your story, Sue, and thank you for being a tireless advocate for dogs.

“I tried to run after them but collapsed and cried, “No, you
can’t take him! No! This can’t be happening.”

I froze in disbelief. My mom, daddy, and uncle all went back
to doing normal everyday things, as if nothing had happened.
I wanted to shout at them, “Stop it! Things will NEVER be
the same. Things will NEVER be normal again.”

I remained on the cool ground for quite some time,
continuing to cry so hard that I wasn’t sure if I could ever stop. Eventually, I picked myself up and walked into the house—alone.

I learned later that the girl’s parents had hired an attorney to have Sam taken away.

Days passed, and I still couldn’t get Sam out of my mind. I missed him so much, and I was sure he missed me, too.

My uncle came by a few days later and said that Sam had run away. I was hopeful that he was on his way home to me. I waited and watched for him to return, but he never did.

In my grief, I wrote a poem about Sam—the first poem I ever composed. At nine, my feelings spilled all over the page.

I keep a copy of Sam’s poem as a reminder—a keepsake. When I read it, its words take me right back to that place and time. In my mind, I see a joyous Sam running, playing, and dancing with me in the yard, and then I see him leaving with a stranger, never to come back to me. I see my little body on the ground, crying and pleading for mercy. And I feel the pain and distress that I felt after losing my best friend, so many years ago.

SAM

I had a dog, his name was Sam,
He always liked to run around.
One day at school he bit a girl,
And it seemed as though,
Everything went in a whirl.
And then one day, my dad came home,
And said to me in a very low tone,
“Sue, I’m sorry to have to say
You’ve got to give ol’ Sam away.”
One day my uncle told my dad,
He knew someone who would be very glad, To take my dog away from me,
And take him to a farm so he could run free. A few weeks later I heard Bill say,
That Sam had up and run away.
No one knew where Sam had gone.
But I know one thing, he never came home.”

— Sue Rogers Davis from Project Keepsake

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And since it is National Dog Day, I hope you dog people will do something special with your dog today. Take him to the park. Play catch. Give him a treat. Brush him. Kiss him. Tell him he's a good boy—or tell her what a good girl she is. Let him or her sleep on the foot of your bed tonight.

The love of a dog—and the love for a dog—is boundless. I hope you are inspired to experience it for yourself one day. Please make a donation to a local pet rescue and advocacy group and consider adopting a shelter dog.

Priscilla Hooked Me Like A Fish

Pris Shartle wrote a keepsake story about a gold bangle bracelet her mother wore around her wrist. 

Great writers know how to grab your attention from the very first words of their story. It’s called the hook—like the readers are fish swimming around in a murky pond who pause to read the first words of a story only to be hooked. The writer reels them in and carries them home for supper.

Some of the stories in Project Keepsake start with a bang. I’ve always loved the way Priscilla Shartle started her story, “Mama’s Gold Bangle Bracelet.” She used powerful dialogue between her and her sister to create upfront drama. Her words demand immediate attention, and readers can’t look away. Pris also crafted a beautiful transition to the body of her story. Here’s an excerpt.

“Mama’s dead!”

For a few seconds I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or awake. I remember hearing the telephone ring and glancing at the clock on the bedside table. It was 7:30 a.m., Monday, April 1, 1991. It was my sister’s voice on the other end of the line, but surely Mama wasn’t dead.

“What do you mean, Mama’s dead?” I asked. The telephone seemed to weigh a ton as I held it tightly to my ear.

“Well, I think she is,” Lindy added.

I thought, “This is an April Fool’s joke, and not a funny one.”

Finally I got her to tell me that Daddy had called her and said Mama had died in her sleep. Lindy was at my parents’ apartment in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. I was in Winston-Salem, North Carolina at my home.

“Have you seen Mama?” I asked.

Lindy replied, “No.”

My frustration and fear of what she was saying began to sink in and my temper flared. I screamed into the phone, ordering my sister to go see and make sure Mama really was dead.

The tears came once I boarded the airplane headed to Baton Rouge. The flight attendants were kind and tried to console me, but I could not stop crying.

My mother was a beautiful woman who lived a tormented life of alcohol and prescription drug abuse, but she did so in a functioning manner so as to give me and my brother and sister a fairly normal life—when she wasn’t drinking. The last twenty years of her life were sober and happy ones filled with love for her friends, family and grandchildren.

As far as I knew, Mama was not ill. Why would she die in her sleep, and why would she die without telling me good-bye? I was her oldest child and my questions came from my heart.

After the funeral and days of cleaning out her drawers and closet, Daddy became very possessive of Mama’s personal things. He said, “Take all the costume jewelry you want, but I keep the good jewelry.”

We obeyed, and Mama’s jewelry sat in her red leather jewelry case for the next twenty years.
”

— Priscilla Shartle from "Mama's Gold Bangle Bracelet"

Pris, like so many other Project Keepsake contributing writers, is a member of the Chattanooga Writers Guild, a nonprofit group that promotes, encourages and supports the craft of quality writing and creates a supportive environment for writers in the greater Chattanooga community. If you live around Chattanooga or Northwest Georgia, I encourage you to join the CWG. It’s a great way to meet other writers in the area.

After Project Keepsake was published and my box of paperbacks arrived, I met Pris on the side of the road in Kennesaw, Georgia and hand-delivered her copy to her. She was as bright and bubbly as always.

Thank you, Pris, for sharing your keepsake story with me and other readers. I look forward to reading other stories from your life.

To read more stories from Project Keepsake, please consider buying a copy. Visit the BUY page and find a bookseller near you.

Happy Birthday, Nancy Ratcliffe!

Today, I give a shout out to birthday girl and Project Keepsake story contributor, Nancy Ratcliffe. Nancy shares a birthday with baseball great Shoeless Joe Jackson and comedian Will Ferrell of Saturday Night Live fame (the guy who parodied George W. Bush, posed as a cheerleader with Cheri Oteri, and starred with Christopher Walken in one of my favorite SNL skits, "NEED MORE COWBELL."

Happy Birthday, Nancy! Thank you for your friendship, and thank you for being part of Project Keepsake!

I got to know Nancy a few years ago when I began working with Habitat for Humanity of Gordon County. As she and I talked one day, I told her about my idea to collect stories about keepsakes.  A few weeks later, she sent her story to me with a lovely photo of her keepsakes—two pieces of whimsical carnival glass.

Like some of my favorite writers, Nancy has a folksy, but polished, writing style and voice. Her story instantly won me over with mentions of the Goatman and reaching under a tablecloth to grab a stale biscuit cooked earlier in the day. Although Nancy is a few years older than me and although she grew up in a completely different region of Georgia, I share these memories with her—they connect us, in a way.

I vaguely remember sitting in heavy traffic on Highway 247 just south of Macon when I was about four years old (circa 1969), waiting for the Goatman (Ches McCartney) to pass through the area. He, his bizarre entourage of goats, and his junky wagon had stopped and slowed traffic that day. It was summer, and my mom and I baked in the oven-like car, even with the windows rolled down. Mom looked over at me that day and said, "I don't know why traffic has stopped. It's either a wreck or the Goatman." I was unfamiliar with the Goatman, and so I envisioned a mythological creature—a half man, half goat being—thirsty for the blood of a little blonde-headed girl. I was terrified—sweat rolling down my freckled face.

Photo by Sam Ratlcliffe. Nancy Ratcliffe's beloved Carnival Glass—an heirloom passed to her from her Grandmother Emma (Emma Ralston Duvall). Her story starts on page seventy-three of Project Keepsake. 

And Nancy's stale biscuits reference reminds me of visiting my Grandmother Lanier's house outside of Metter, Georgia. After breakfast, she, too, would cover the leftovers with a thick cotton tablecloth to protect the food from bold, black house flies. When my siblings and I got hungry, we ran into her old farmhouse kitchen, helped ourselves to whatever was under the cloth, then raced back outside to resume whatever we were doing before our break. On a side note, I was a really skinny little girl, and Grandmother Lanier was always pushing food my way saying, "I think you must have worms." Thanks for that, Grandmother! Your statement scarred me for life.

But back to Nancy's story—I also love the fact that Nancy's keepsakes didn't appeal to her at first. Some times the passage of time, and the passing of loved ones, transform simple objects into priceless keepsakes. I've learned this lesson in my own lifetime.

"Carnival Glass" starts on page seventy-three of the book. Here's an excerpt:

“The shiny treasures didn’t really seem like treasures to me more than thirty years ago when I was presented with them. Shortly after my wedding, my mother and father visited my oldest first cousin, and before the end of their time together, she handed them a shoebox tied together with twine.

“This is Nancy’s wedding present,” Cousin Bonnie said. “I’ve had these since Grandma died because I was the oldest, and now that Nancy’s married, it’s her turn to have them. After all, she’s named after Grandma: Nancy Emma.”

A few days later, my mother gave me the box. I was anxious to discover the contents—until I saw them.

“What is this?” I asked examining the two pieces of dark purple glassware. I had no idea the purpose of either piece, and nothing in our apartment matched the rather strange colors.

“I remember when Grandma bought those,” my father said. “We were living at Curryville in Gordon County, and she got those from the rolling store.”

Though I wasn’t old enough to have ever shopped from the rolling store, I had always been fascinated by the idea of a traveling merchant and his wares since we visited an elderly relative in Kentucky’s coal-mining country whose store was still parked in his yard long after he had given up his route. Most of what was left in the dilapidated truck was a combination of castoffs from their home and some Watkins products like liniment and vanilla flavoring. That image, along with the times I had seen the Goatman and his wagonload of treasures bring traffic to a standstill on Georgia’s Highway 41, made me more interested in my father’s recollection.

“I think she must have bought those about 1914, when I was about five years old,” my dad recalled. “She saved and saved to buy those. I think she must have paid five or ten cents for each piece, which was a small fortune back then.”

He pointed to one of the objects.

“This little thing that looks like a vase is a hatpin holder,” he explained.

I picked-up the other piece. It looked like a candy dish with a lid.
“And that’s a jelly jar,” he continued. “Before refrigeration, jellies stayed on the table between meals.”

I nodded with understanding. Even in my childhood, Aunt Mell, one of the last of the great farm wives, had simply spread a tablecloth over the leftovers that wouldn’t spoil. Anytime I visited, I peered under the cloth and filched one of her cold homemade biscuits for a snack.”

— Nancy Ratcliffe, from Project Keepsake

Happy Birthday, Nancy! I'm so glad we are friends! And thank you for sharing your story!

Black Swank Trifold

Since Project Keepsake was published in February, several men readers have remarked, “I don’t have keepsakes—that’s kind of a ‘woman’ thing.”

Au contraire! Twelve of the fifty-five keepsake stories in the first collection were penned by men. My husband, Gene, has a few keepsakes he stores in a Lundstrum stacking mission-style lawyers' bookcase in his office. My brother, Andy, has one keepsake that I know of, and if I plundered around his house, I bet I could find more. Yes, men have keepsakes.  They may not talk about them a lot, but men keep things.

So today, I cast a light on a man’s keepsake and keepsake story.

Ed's story is about a wallet and the kindness of a stranger. "Black Swank Wallet" begins on page 252.

I first heard Ed Huey tell his keepsake story while at a gathering at Jane Starner’s riverside condo just north of Chattanooga. He delivered a short summary while I ate salad and sipped wine. Ed’s keepsake is a wallet that belonged to his father. His story tells the tale of a broken family, a son’s sadness, and the kindness of a stranger. 

“Oh wow! You’ve got to write that story down,” I said afterwards.

But Ed’s a busy guy—he’s a thriving blues musician with dozens of irons in the fire all the time. He teaches music. He plays music. He’s recorded songs and documented conversations with Mississippi blues greats. He even played the part of a dead body in an independent film a few years back—a performance worthy of an Academy Award, I might add. Plus, he and his beautiful and multitalented wife, Sharon Huey, had recently moved to Natchitoches, Louisiana, so I didn’t think that Ed would ever be able to carve out the time to write his story down on paper for me, or for anyone else. But I was wrong.

When Ed learned that I needed one more story for the book, he sat down and wrote “Black Swank Trifold” and sent it to me with a lovely note.

I am a rather stoic gal—a hard-as-nails, female Mr. Spock, of sorts. I rarely show emotion unless someone is sick or dead or I have been pushed to an extreme limit, but Ed’s kindness and his story evoke strong emotions in me.

His story begins on page 252 of Project Keepsake. Enjoy!

“My father died of a heart attack at a traffic light in Monroe, Louisiana. His divorce from my mother and marriage to his third wife caused a bitter rift in the family that was never repaired. My sister and I were never offered any of his belongings after his death.

When the phone rang the caller asked, “Is this Mr. Lynn E. Huey, Jr.?”

I said to myself, “Telemarketer, what do you want? How did you get my number? And why are you calling me?” I went into defense mode.

“Are you Lynn Huey? Please don’t hang up, I have something that belongs to you.”

I was angry now, the gall!

“My name is Michael. I found your father’s wallet. I’ve been contacting all the Lynn Hueys I could find. When I found Lynn Huey, Jr., I had a feeling.”

Michael said he was in Melbourne, Florida browsing an antique toy store and saw a wallet on a shelf for $10. Strange offering for a toy store. He opened it and found identification, family pictures, membership cards, even a voter registration card for Lynn E. Huey. He thought it very curious that an intact billfold was in a location so remote from the address listed on the driver’s license, Bossier City, Louisiana, but he replaced it on the shelf and left the store.

As he reached the sidewalk, Michael kept thinking about the billfold. He couldn’t let it go. That billfold belonged to someone. He went back and purchased the item. There must be some way to restore it to the Huey family, he thought. Now he had finally called the right Lynn Huey.

Memories flooded my senses. I was speechless for several seconds. When I found the words, I told Michael I did not have anything that belonged to my father. The next few seconds Michael was silent. Then, in an choked-up voice, he said, “Well, Mr. Huey, I have something very special for you, today. Something that belonged to your father.”

He told me about the items in the billfold, a picture of my son, an appointment card for the cardiologist and other things that verified that this was in fact my father’s billfold.

When Michael mailed the parcel, he related the story to the UPS store manager. UPS insisted on participating in the restoration of the billfold to the Huey family as a gift. The package was sent at no charge.

The swank, genuine cowhide, trifold, black billfold with the accordion card windows arrived. All available card windows were occupied with his current driver’s license, employment photo ID, Masonic Lodge card, golf club membership, bank ID, family pictures of his mother, current wife, me, grand sons, assorted reminders for medical appointments. All up to date for 1974. I was looking directly into Lynn Edmond Huey’s face, a moment rescued from 1974. I had not seen him or any of his belongings since October 1974. Michael M. walked into an antique toy store in Melbourne, Florida in October 2010, saw this object on a shelf, purchased it, and sent it to me!

Michael enclosed this letter:

October 21, 2010

Mr. Huey,

In life we all have angels that watch over us, wherever we go and whatever we do. Also in life there are times where a stranger will pop into your life and change things, even just a little, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. This time, was for the better.

Today, I found something that belongs to your family and I did not believe that it was right to to leave it on that shelf in that store. It belongs in your home, in your hands. When you said that you do not have anything of your father’s, I choked up a little, and I knew I did the right thing. Sorry it took me so long to find it, but today, as you read this, you hold in your possession the very thing that your father took with him everywhere. It has his important identifications, and most of all, his pictures of what I am thinking are your kids. Here are the details about how this came about, I am sure you will want to tell this story to family, I found this at an old antique toy store in Melbourne, Florida on 10-21-2010. I contacted a Lynn Huey in Alabama, a female, and she said that she was married into the Huey family, but has no relation. Then I went to the white pages and found you, Jr., and had a good feeling that you are who I needed to speak with.

My father is my best friend and I know one day I will have to say goodbye to him. That will be a sad day. Today, you can say hello again to yours, through memories, and keep a part of him with you forever.

Thank you for not hanging up the phone today and God Bless you and your family.

Sincerely,

Michael M.

I will never know how my daddy’s billfold came to be in Melbourne, Florida, but I know how it came to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

Thank you Michael.”

— Ed Huey, "Black Swank Trifold" from Project Keepsake

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The Castanets by Debbie Dickson

My brother introduced me to Debbie Dickson a few years ago, and I loved her immediately.  But then again, everyone loves Debbie. She is one of those people who instantly blends into a family or group of friends like she's been part of the group forever—like an old friend or a beloved family member you don't see very often.

"They became fixtures of my youth. Even when my sister and I were grown and had children of our own, our children would find a pair in my parents’ home, walk over to my mother and plead, “Show me how, Grandma.” —Debbie Dickson, "The Castanets," page 264 of Project Keepsake

After Debbie learned that I was collecting keepsake stories for a book, she said, "I have a story I'd like to share." A few weeks later, I received her nearly-perfect first draft—a story about castanets, but in reality, the story is about her mother, Joy Schwamb Dickson, who taught school in the Wilcox County school system for years and years.

For those of you who don't know, castanets are those wooden percussion instruments used in Spanish music. They consist of pairs of hollowed-out pieces of wood joined on one edge by a string. Musicians and dancers hold the castanets in their hands and produce those intriguing, rhythmic, clicking sounds. Debbie's mother used castanets to teach Spanish to her students and her grandchildren, so they were always scattered about the house.

Joy Dickson and two other teachers (Ms. Harden and Lucia Rutland) from the Wilcox County School System in Georgia. Notice Joy's beautiful beehive hairdo. 

In her story, Debbie reminisces about her mother's love of teaching, how her mother loved and believed in her students, her mom's beehive hairdo, and her mom's arduous battle with breast cancer. It's a beautiful story—a beautiful tribute piece. I am thankful I met Debbie, and I am thankful that through Debbie's storytelling, I got to know a little bit about her mother.

Here's an excerpt from Debbie's story.  Purchase your own copy of Project Keepsake to read all of Debbie's story and other stories about keepsakes and the stories that give simple objects life and meaning. 

“But the second year of her battle was different—it was much more difficult. Mom decided it was finally time to pass the teaching torch on to a predecessor. But retiring from teaching left a hole in her heart, and she sorely missed her students.

One day several months later, I walked through Mom’s room while she napped and witnessed her—eyes closed, right hand held high with index finger pointing into the air—correcting her students in her sleep.

“NO, NO, NO!” she said with a smile.

Even as cancer ravaged her body, she continued to teach in her dreams using perfect Spanish and accent, which was all she allowed spoken in her classroom after the first few classes. I saw her teaching in her sleep often that year—watched her hands working an imaginary pair of castanets. It was a true testament of her love of being an educator.

Years have passed since I lost my mother, yet I still feel her presence all around me, especially when I see her castanets, which Dad still keeps around the house. When I see them, I remember their click, click, click and the perfection of Mom’s voice. I see clearly the memory of her teaching her grandchildren how to speak and how to play. And I’m reminded of her boundless love of teaching—a calling that brought joy to her glorious life for so many years.”

— Debbie Dickson, "The Castanets"

Heart of Hearts—The Pendant

It was practically a miracle I graduated from college.  My last year at Georgia Tech in Atlanta was a blur of my taking impossible Mechanical Engineering exams, isolating myself in quiet corners of the library, and walking around campus like a zombie (sleep eluded me for most of that last year, and I vowed that if I ever got out of Tech alive, I would never pull an all-nighter ever, ever again).

But something else was going on in my life that year. I carried a dark passenger with me—lugged the passenger around with me to class every day as if I was Atlas carrying the world on my shoulders, dragged the passenger home with me in the evenings like a dead body, and begged the passenger for a few hours of sweet-dream sleep each and every night.  Though I didn’t talk about it much, there were big problems 100 miles away at my home in Bonaire that year.   

A heart-shaped, diamond pendant that my mother and father gave me when I graduated from college. It reminds me that love is "eclipsed" some times by a situation or memory, but the love is always there.

For lack of better words, my father experienced some type of out-of-the-blue midlife crisis that year which led him to leave my mother and me.

He grew distant from us. He showed immeasurable apathy and anger toward us. And then he just stopped coming home. Instead, he chose to spend his nights sleeping underneath the stars at a nearby hunting club or in the company of another woman.

Yes, he stated a reason for leaving, but it was a lame and illogical reason.

My older brother and sister were married and busy with their own lives when the proverbial shit hit the fan. And so, Mom and I tried to handle the situation ourselves, but we failed miserably.

Consumed by the situation, I called home often that year to check on my mother.  She needed a friend, but as a young adult, I didn’t know how to offer the kind of support she needed. I tried, though. On the weekends, I drove home to Bonaire and experienced the loneliness of our home with her. Sometimes my father would make a brief appearance—Mom and I both begging him to stay—and then he would leave again. 

His leaving crushed us. It’s a wound that healed years ago but left really ugly scars on our psyches.

My father returned home later that year, and my parents started the work of rebuilding their relationship. To my knowledge, he never apologized to Mom, and no, he never told me he was sorry. The three of us focused on moving forward.

In the midst of our family’s situation that year, my grades plummeted to an all time low. My parents joined forces and voiced a lot of disappointment, dissatisfaction, and irritation with me, and I understood their frustration.  I, too, was disappointed, dissatisfied, and irritated with myself, but I lacked the energy to pull myself up from the depths. The three of us argued a lot. Some of the arguments were heated and still haunt me. I felt so lost and hollow. For the first time in my life, I felt unloved.

But some how, some way, I graduated. They all came to witness me walk—my brother and his first wife, my sister and her first husband, Grandmother Lanier, Aunt Colleen, Mom, and Daddy. After the commencement ceremony, we dined—as a family—at Red Lobster on Cobb Parkway. My parents beamed with happiness, relief, and pride. But still, I knew I had caused a lot of pain and distress, and so the shame of letting them down still plagued me, even as we sat at the restaurant that day pretending that all was fine.

Amber posing next to Georgia Tech's Ramblin' Wreck after graduating from college.

Mom slid a little wrapped box across the table to me—a graduation gift from her and my dad. The gesture threw me a bit, because it had not occurred to me that they would give me a graduation gift.  They had dished out thousands of dollars for me to go to college and that was more than enough. Plus, I had been a constant source of aggravation to them in the months leading up to my graduation. I felt unworthy of their gift.

The box contained a gold serpentine chain holding a small pendant—twenty-five sparkling diamonds in the shape of a heart. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry I had ever seen, and the symbolism of the heart wasn’t lost on me.

“You’ll always be in our hearts,” Mom said. “We want you to know that no matter where you go in life or what you do, we will always love you.”

I put the necklace around my neck that day, and I felt my parents’ unconditional love once again—as bright, warm, and penetrating as summer sunshine on my bare shoulders. At that moment, I realized their love had been with me all along. It had been temporarily hidden—eclipsed by the sadness and weight of our family’s problems—but it had been there.

The diamond-encrusted heart pendant became a keepsake, and I wore it often in the years that followed my graduation.

Life unfolded for me. I joined the workforce. I got married. My father died. Mom remarried a few years later. Our family experienced divorces, marriages, births, and funerals.  I reinvented myself and launched a new career. 

Mom and I don’t talk about the year of my dad’s midlife crisis very often.  We still don’t really understand what happened that year, or why. But it came up last week after I mentioned a recurring dream to her on the phone. In my dream, I was in college again and it was finals week and I realized that there was a course on my schedule that I hadn’t attended all quarter and I freaked out.

“Sometimes when I dream that dream, I wake up in a cold sweat, realize that it was just a dream, and thank God that I am out of school,” I laughed.

“Dreams are funny, aren’t they?” Mom remarked. “I’d love to really study why we dream the things we dream.”

“Do you have a recurring dream, Mom?” I asked.

She paused then said, “Yes, I dream that your father is walking out of the house and I am running behind him begging him to stay, but he won’t stop.  He just keeps walking away from me. Sometimes the dream is so real that it scares me. I wake up so upset that I can’t go back to sleep. I dream it two or three times each month."

“We actually lived through that,” I said. “That was a really tough time for us.”

We both fell silent on the phone recalling the events. It was as if I relived the entire year in a single moment, and then for the first time in a very long time, I got mad at my father.

"You know what you should do?” I said to my mother. “The next time you have that dream, you should seize control of it and shout, ‘Fine!  Just go!’ Turn around and go back inside the house and never look back. Don’t chase him out the door any more. Just let him leave.”

My anger seemed to come out of nowhere and it made my heart race and my face flush. I got off the phone.

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Shaken by the surge of sudden, unexpected emotion, I paced back and forth on my front porch for a few minutes trying to calm down, but I couldn’t. I took several deep breaths trying to let the feelings go, but they wouldn’t dissipate.

I walked into the house, plucked the diamond pendant from the safety of my jewelry box, and kissed it. I forced myself to focus on the happier memories of my father—and there are hundreds, if not thousands, of happy memories stored in the dark caverns of my mind. I reminded myself of his love—sometimes hidden, eclipsed, broken, and imperfect, but ALWAYS THERE, ALWAYS THERE, ALWAYS THERE—as real to me as the little heart I clutched in my fingertips. I found it hard to put the pendant back in its hiding place that day, but I did. I let it go, and twenty-six years later, I finally let it go.

Tracy Chevalier's Keepsakes

This morning, Jemille Williams directed me to a photo blog (Mail Online, 2013) showcasing a few of author Tracy Chevalier's keepsakes. For those of you unfamiliar with Ms. Chevalier, she writes brilliant, bestselling books such as Girl with a Pearl Earring and The Last Runaway.  So I was very excited to learn that she—like me—is the guardian to many keepsakes.

Under each photo, Ms. Chevalier explained the significance of each keepsake. She mentioned that she is the keeper of a chartreuse, turquoise, and indigo scarf that belonged to her mother who died when she was just eight years old. Chevalier noted in the caption that she wears the scarf a lot. 

Author Tracy Chevalier is also a keeper of keepsakes.  This is a scarf that belonged to her mother.

I'm reminded of the heart-shaped locket on the front of my book and how it came to be in my own keepsake collection.  My grandmother gave it to me for Christmas over forty years ago.  Today, it's fashionably outdated, dented, and has scratches on it, yet I wear the clunky piece some days.  I love to feel the large metal casing on my chest—near my heart. Every time I feel it, I am reminded of my grandmother. I'm sure that Ms. Chevalier loves to wrap her heirloom around her neck like the loving arms of her mother embracing her once again. It's a feeling I know so well.

She also shared the stories behind a wine bottle named for her book, Girl with a Pearl Earring, a unicorn pendant, and notebooks filled with research scribblings—each one wrapped in fabrics appropriate to the novel's theme.  She talked about a pair of artsy earrings she purchased after a successful book reading, a fossil, and her quilts. You can browse Chevalier's keepsakes here.

The subtitle of my book is: Everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.  It's true.  I know you have one.  I've never met a person who didn't have something that they've held onto through the years—something that brings a flood of memories to the forefront.  What's yours? And why do you keep it?