Jennifer's Chinese Camphor Trunk

On my eighteenth birthday, my parents presented me with a beautiful Lane hope chest. It was crafted from the dark wood of a cherry tree and lined with aromatic cedar planks.

Three years earlier when my sister celebrated her eighteenth year of life, she, too, received a hope chest (AKA dowry chest), and my mother immediately began filling it with all sorts of linens and gifts that Audrey might need in her future married life. Weeks before my birthday, Mom and I visited a furniture store in Warner Robins, Georgia and browsed three or four chest designs, so I wasn't surprised when the chest was delivered to our home just a few weeks before I left for college.

Jennifer Chow writes about the history of  a Chinese camphor trunk and the memories associated with it.

That chest has been with me for thirty-one years, although it's been moved, sat on, banged up a bit, and a piece of molding has fallen off and needs to be glued back into position. I keep sacred items in it—old photo albums, heirlooms, and smaller keepsakes. It's a keepsake that houses other keepsakes. I often say to my husband, "If the house catches on fire and you have time, please drag my hope chest out of the house." 

So I was enamored with Jennifer Chow's keepsake story about her Chinese camphor trunk. Though I've never met her and don't share her background or life experiences, I instantly understood her bond to the ornate wooden chest that sits in the corner of her room.

Oh, the thought of the things Jennifer's keepsake has seen in its lifetime—the hands that have caressed its intricate carvings, the miles it witnessed as it journeyed from its homeland to America, the items that have filled its interior. Not only does a trunk stores objects, but a trunk stores dozens of memories and thoughts—keeps them safe and preserves them for future generations.

Enjoy, Jennifer's story titled, "The Biggest Keepsake." It won honorable mention in November's keepsake story contest.

“My keepsake takes up the whole corner of a room. A big memento, it measures three feet by two feet. Several strong men had to carry it into my house when I first moved. A Chinese camphor trunk, it comes from the tradition of artisanal woodwork.

These chests originated during the Ming Dynasty, when they were used for storing royal robes. Typically, the trunks come from southern China, a region known for its camphor trees. The aromatic camphor wood repels moths and other insects, keeping fabric intact in a chest’s spacious interior.

By cultural practice, such trunks are intended as part of a bridal dowry, akin to a hope chest. A bride would keep her precious silks in it to save until marriage. When my mom immigrated to the United States, my great-aunt gave the ornate trunk to her.

The chest was a physical manifestation of my great-aunt’s hopes for my mom’s future marriage prospects. The solid wood also served as a practical investment for storing possessions. Even in the 18th and 19th centuries, traders would carry tea, silk, and porcelain in them to cross seas, selling goods from China to Europe.

As a child, I thought of the chest as a kind of magical trunk. Carved figures scrolled across its front and sides, depicting ancient Chinese life. From its interior, beautiful clothes spilled forth. Even though my mom’s outfits didn’t fit me, I still liked looking at their exotic designs and running my hands across their soft texture.

When I received the trunk as an adult, I didn’t use it to store clothes. Instead, I house books inside the wooden Chinese trunk. They are my treasures, but of the literary kind.

When I catch a whiff of the heady camphor scent from the trunk, it leads me to the past. The chest is a sturdy and solid connection to both my cultural heritage and my happy childhood. However, it also has a tie to the future. It holds a promise for my children, that when I pass the trunk along, they’ll have their own treasure to keep and store in it. I hope it’ll also serve them as a reservoir of joyous memories and provide them with an enduring sense of family and home.”

— Jennifer Chow, 2014

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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

Jennifer J. Chow specializes in writing Asian-American fiction with a geriatric twist. Her debut novel, The 228 Legacy (Martin Sisters Publishing) was a Foreword Reviews' Book of the Year Award Finalist. She lives and writes from Torrance, California. Visit Jennifer's website at http://jenniferjchow.com/.

To read more short keepsake stories, consider purchasing a signed copy of Project Keepsake, a collection of fifty-five stories examining why we keep the objects we keep. Click the link on the right. It's on sale with no shipping charges.

What about you? Do you have a keepsake story? I encourage you to share your story with family and friends. Share the origins and histories of your most prized possessions.

Why Are They MAD? A Keepsake Story

Simply transfixed.

Miller and Debbie Harrell explain the meaning behind an old shirt—a very special keepsake.

I was simply transfixed as I read Miller and Debbie Harrell's keepsake story at the end of November last year. With all of the fine storytelling elements—passion, love, separation, tragedy, despair, reunion, and resolve—their story is one of those rare love stories that the Hallmark Channel makes movies about. In fact, as I read the words, I saw their lives unfold in my mind's eye like a film. It was quite an emotional ride.

They share the origin of an old t-shirt and all of the memories that flood their minds when they see the shirt. They also submitted a photo of the yellowed tee surrounded by a dozen or more photos of the couple, as if they are cradling a moment in time. You can tell a lot from photos, and the Harrell's photos show two people deeply connected and devoted to one another.

Their story won honorable mention and praise by the judges of the 2014 Project Keepsake story contest. They sent two titles for their story—"The Energy of the Moment" and "Years Have Given Life to the Letters." I like both titles. Which title do you prefer? Leave a comment.

“Early in the year of 1982 brought significant change in my life, one you never see coming, especially as a teenager; you think it’s just another day and just another boyfriend.

We met by chance in a passing sort of way in our high school hallway, but we knew something was unique upon first glance. Immediately we became inseparable and the feelings were like nothing else I had ever experienced. I remember thinking “shoot me now,” as I looked into his eyes and felt an instant soul connection. We were, and are, more than just the love of each other’s life; we quickly knew that we are each other’s only love. Something special that transcends time and space.

“You were hauntingly familiar to me when we met. The closer we became the more I felt the sensation that this was not the first time. You were exotic, cosmic and strange, though somehow familiar as your soul, my soul, our soul, was reunited,” (Harrell & Harrell, 2014) are the words my husband, Miller, used when asked to describe our relationship. When I read these words for the first time, it all felt so surreal to hear him describe in almost exact detail the way I feel for him.

Our time together was sweet and special and we couldn’t stand to be apart. It was as if we didn’t need anything else to fill our days, but due to unforeseen circumstances our time together was to be thrown off course. I was sent to live with my dad in another state, and to compound the situation, I found out I was pregnant shortly after the move. My family’s response was to immediately cut off all contact between the two of us, it was devastating!

Dealing with the separation but knowing I had to focus on the baby, I threw myself into being the best mom I knew how to be, trying to eat right, lightly exercising and maintaining as much calm as possible under the stress and strain. All seemed to be good, the baby had a strong heartbeat and by all indications was developing well. Unfortunately, things don’t always turn out as expected, and by January of 1983 our first daughter had been born, well stillborn actually. I felt as if a piece of my heart died that day, along with any simple teenage innocence that I perhaps once had. Those pregnancy moments that we moms typically complain about, you know the uncomfortable kicks or stretch marks, these are the memories I cherish because they are all I have of my daughter, being unable to give her a name or to hold her. The pain of the losses, our baby girl and the lack of communication with Miller was more than I knew how to bear at such a young age.

I had never felt so alone or empty inside before. It was a time of remarkable transformation for me; I became a completely different person with an entirely new worldview. In the moment of her birth, I learned to never take life or people for granted ever again, there are no guarantees. The loss of our daughter helped me to see how important it is to live in the moment. It brought this idea to light in an exceedingly tangible and incredibly palpable way to me. The desire to express what I feel to those important to me was so intense; I wanted to get lost in that awareness and sensation of love.

In time, I went back to live with my mom and Miller and I were reunited again, but it all had taken a toll on us; we were both wounded and hurting. The fear of losing each other was strong and our desire was to never have to feel the pain of that kind of separation again, so excitedly we eloped during spring break of our senior year of high school. After all that we’d experienced by being separated and in the shadow of the loss of our daughter, finding ways to outwardly show and express our love for each other had become important to us.

As fate would have it, walking through the mall one day as enamored teenagers, an opportunity presented itself in the way of a t-shirt kiosk. They make your shirts on the spot, whatever you want on it, we were ecstatic, so we discussed it and came up with “We’re MAD.”

It was perfect, as people would ask what we were mad about we could share how “MAD”ly in love with each other we were and share that it is also an acronym for our names, “Miller And Debbie.”

Perhaps silly and corny, but that’s us. That t-shirt is worn thin and yellowish in color today, but what makes it sentimental and special will never wear thin. The significance and importance of being in the moment while getting that shirt made is going to always be in my memory, and now what was a simple fun trip to the mall for two lovestruck teens lost in their own world, who had the desire to create a unique gift that only they could share, has expanded into a lifetime of depth and meaning beyond measure.

The threads, seams and special letters of that t-shirt hold the love, energy and memories of years of laughter, tears and joy. To this very day, we still use the acronym MAD in a countless ways; it is very special to both of us. But what no one probably knows is that this t-shirt and MAD brings to mind so many memories and represents so many things to me, the first of course is that special day coming up with the idea for MAD and having the shirt made with my beautiful man. The second is the daughter that we lost when we so very young ourselves, and the desire to honor her memory and to always live in the moment like we did on that fateful day, because that is what she taught me in her very short time on this earth.

In her memory, I will always strive to cherish each and every moment and live life to the absolute fullest every single day. The letters, MAD, have become an “intellectual” keepsake for us now. I look at the t-shirt and those simple letters, and I’m flooded with beautiful memories and reminded to focus on what is really important and to always be grateful. Peace, MAD”

— Miller and Debbie ("MAD") Harrell, 2014

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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

Miller and Debbie Harrell of Aurora, Colorado describe themselves as two free-spirited soul mates that met in high school and never looked back. They see their daily lives as opportunities to grown, experience and enjoy life to all its fullness. And perhaps they launched the supercouple nickname fad. After all, they created MAD years before Brangelina, Kimye, and Billary emerged as unity names.

Thanks to the Harrell's for sharing their story, and thanks to Beyond Your Blog for steering the Harrell's to my website via their tweet about the Project Keepsake contest.

What about you? Do you have a keepsake story? I encourage you to share your story with family and friends. Share the origins and histories of the most special keepsakes in your possession. Write down the stories that matter. Keep storytelling alive!

To read other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a signed copy of Project Keepsake by clicking the link on the left. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

If you live in Northwest Georgia, buy from one of these small businesses—Dave & Pauli's Art Emporium in Dalton, Cottage Treasures in Ringgold, Blue Willow Antiques in Cave Spring, The Lighthouse in Calhoun, the Harris Arts Center in Calhoun, or A Gift of Season in Calhoun, and the Payne Farm Vegetable Stand in Lily Pond.

"The Empty Hatbox"

There's such an irony to Cappy Hall Rearick's keepsake story. The empty hatbox she keeps and wrote about for Project Keepsake is not empty at all—it is full of life. Full of moments. Full of memories.

I devoured Cappy's story from beginning to end. I, too, am a hat person and can mark certain eras of my life by the hats that occupied my closet shelf. But it wasn't just our mutual love of chapeaus (or chapeaux) that drew me to her story. I love the way Cappy wove her story with familiar imagery. I love the references to divas of the past. I love her choice of words—"dismal mood is invaded," pieces of my past leap to life," "the cusp of teenagery," "plu-purple fit," "chunky pubescent elf," and "it held transitions of a young girl's life." 

She ends her story with, "There is a hatbox in everyone's life." I believe this to be true. I often say, "Everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell."

Enjoy Cappy's story!

“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.” ~ Oscar Wilde

The moving van is almost packed, the hired movers wait outside for me to give them instructions. I amble through my mother’s empty house, the place I once called home, trying to memorize what I will never see again.

My dismal mood is invaded when the screen door slams behind me. An impatient mover has shuffled into the room to ask, “Did you want this old box to go on the truck, or what?”

It is an old hatbox, faded now and shabby with age. Upon seeing it again after such a long time, pieces of my past leap to life and before I know it, I am swept back in time to the early Fifties when hats were the height of fashion.

Dressing up meant wearing your Sunday clothes, white cotton gloves and always a hat. I am twelve-years-old again and Mama says I can pick out my own Christmas hat for the first time ever. Since I am on the cusp of teenagery, I fancy myself showing up at church on Christmas Day wearing a big picture hat that will make me the spittin’ image of Lana Turner in The Bad and the Beautiful. Mama rolls her eyes at that and laughs out loud.

“Twelve-year-olds don’t wear picture hats. They wear little girl hats and look like June Allyson in Little Women.”

I pitched a plu-purple fit, but it didn’t win the argument. Mama took me down to Yetta’s Little Hat Shoppe and bought me a hat made of red felt and trimmed with green holly. I looked like a chunky pubescent elf.

After that, however, hats began to signify seasons of growth in my life. At fourteen, when I was in my Casablanca phase and yearning to be as mysterious as Ingrid Bergman, I learned to drive. I drove Daddy’s car all over town wearing a French Beret cocked to the side while pretending to be a grownup.

Heartbreak of first love ushered in a quasi-serious period for me so I cut my hair in a pageboy bob. Then I bought a brown knitted tam and tried every which way to look as noble as Jane Wyman portraying Johnny Belinda.

After some time passed, I changed my hairstyle to the quintessential shoulder-length flip. I bought pillbox hats to wear in order to emulate Jackie Kennedy during the America’s Camelot Period. That was the same year I voted for the first time, the year I became a woman.

The bored man eager to finish packing his truck and dangling that old hatbox at me could not possibly know its importance. It wasn’t just a box that had once stored hats; it held transitions of a young girl’s life.

Seeing the old hatbox again quickly spirited me back to the Main Street of my past. It was Christmas and the local hardware store window was decorated with floor-to-ceiling trees while electrically charged elves pulled wheelbarrows piled high with red garden tools. Hershey’s Kisses were on sale at the Rexall Drug Store on the corner, and It’s A Wonderful Life was flashing on the marquee at the movie theater across the street. The clock outside the First National Bank had just begun to chime when I saw my mother going into the department store to shop, probably for fabric to make me a dress for Christmas. I followed her up the creaky, wooden stairs to the second floor and watched her rub pieces of cloth through her thumb and forefinger, something she always did while making up her mind on what to buy. Minutes later I strolled past the Five & Dime, the small store sold everything from balloons to baby diapers. I stopped long enough to fill my nose with the fragrance of freshly popped popcorn wafting from the front double doors. A Christmas parade was in full swing as it moved slowly down the street with decorated floats and kids running alongside trying to catch the hard candy tossed by Santa and his elf helpers. I was a Girl Scout again in that moment marching in that parade wearing the uniform and the corresponding hat.

Moments I had thought were long forgotten had rushed back to me the minute I looked at that weary old hat box. I don’t remember throwing it away but I must have. Seeing it again, however, made me ask myself how I could ever have thought of discarding it?

In the middle of that thought, the impatient mover chose to say, “Lady, if you want me to toss this empty old box you need to tell me. It’s getting dark and I have to get on the road soon.”

At this very moment, I feel an overwhelming need for homegrown simplicity stored in that hatbox. True, it does appear to be empty and worthless, but it is not. What it contains is the essential food for my hungry soul. With tears of remembrance in my eyes, I shake my head. “Don’t you dare toss that hatbox. Don’t even think about it. It might look empty to you, but it’s full of treasures I can never replace.”

There is a hatbox in everyone’s life.”

— Cappy Hall Rearick, 2014

Cappy Hall Rearick is a syndicated humor columnist and author of six books. She lives in Saluda, North Carolina, that town that time forgot.

sale

Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

What about you? Do you have a keepsake story? I encourage you to share your story with family and friends. Share the origins and histories of the most special keepsakes in your possession. Write down the stories that matter. Keep storytelling alive!

To read other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a signed copy of Project Keepsake by clicking the link on the left. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift or birthday gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

If you live in Northwest Georgia, buy from one of these small businesses—Dave & Pauli's Art Emporium in Dalton, Cottage Treasures in Ringgold, Blue Willow Antiques in Cave Spring, The Lighthouse in Calhoun, the Harris Arts Center in Calhoun, or A Gift of Season in Calhoun, and the Payne Farm Vegetable Stand in Lily Pond.

"A Chalkboard for Christmas"

Gloria Bennet shares a story about a child's chalkboard and a Christmas memory.

At Christmastime, my mind often drifts back to my childhood and the magic of the season. I remember the live nativity scenes at a local church, South Georgia's downtowns dressed up with dangling Christmas lights and showy evergreens, and a few of the toys my siblings and I discovered under the tree on Christmas morning—a Lite-Brite, a telescope, Milton Bradley's nerve-racking Operation game, a Mrs. Beasley doll, a nurse's uniform and bag with fake stethoscope and pills, a set of red stilts, and a BB gun (it was not a Daisy Red Ryder, and I did not shoot anyone's eye out). 

Gloria Bennet of Dawsonville, Georgia remembers receiving a simple chalkboard—a gift form her stepfather, James. Indeed, she still has this priceless keepsake. It hangs in her office as a symbol of lifelong learning. Most of all, the chalkboard holds a beautiful Christmas memory from her past.

Gloria submitted "A Chalkboard for Christmas" to my Project Keepsake story contest, and her story received honorable mention from judging panel. One of the judges commented, "The writer's unwavering fascination for words came through to me. I love that the contributor remembers the moment of falling in love with letters and words and that the chalkboard has become a conduit for those special memories."

Enjoy Gloria's story!

“I was four years old when my mother married my stepfather, James. I moved in with them in late September and saw snow for the first time in my life. The three of us spent our first Christmas together in North Florida, however, at my maternal grandparents’ house near the coast.

When we arrived, a houseful of relatives and an array of delicious aromas greeted us at the door; the smell of cinnamon, brown sugar, pumpkin, and vanilla led us straight to the kitchen. The following evening was Christmas Eve, and several of the adults packed all of us children into my grandfather’s station wagon after dinner and drove us downtown to the park at Lake Alice. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I looked up into the heavens, where I searched for a sleigh led by eight tiny reindeer. There was no sign anywhere of Santa Claus, but the sky was especially beautiful that night. A multitude of stars shivered against a backdrop of darkness, and clouds drifted slowly across what seemed an endless expanse of constellations.

As I was led down the weathered narrow pier, my hand held firmly by my mother’s, the moon’s reflection caught my attention as it danced on the surface of the water. A familiar medley of Christmas carols drifted towards us from one of the houses that lined the shores. But the words and music were accompanied this time by the familiar steady humming of tree frogs and crickets. A floating wooden dock in the middle of the lake had been decorated with a live tree and the multicolored Christmas lights were beautiful. I am at a loss now trying to figure out how they ran electricity to the middle of the lake to light up that tree, but the sight of it is a memory I have always cherished.

When we returned to my grandparents’ house later that evening, we were excited to see that Santa Claus had come early, while we were out, and had left brightly colored packages for everyone. In addition to what Santa had left for me, James had given me a chalkboard, which came with a colorful copy of the alphabet mounted along its base.

I had no real interest in the chalkboard at first. I preferred the lovely new dark-haired doll that came with a trunk full of handsome outfits with matching accessories instead. By the time we made the long return trip home several days later, however, I had grown tired of changing the doll’s clothes and was ready to amuse myself with something different. So my stepfather sat down with me after dinner one evening in late December and showed me what I could do with a piece of chalk, a copy of the alphabet, and the chalkboard.

With an unsteady hand, I copied the first three letters of the alphabet and became absorbed in the process. I began to form letters, just like the ones that made up the pages of my favorite storybooks. Before long, I was writing three letter words, like cat, dog, and box.

Throughout elementary school I often lined up my dolls and teddy bears against the walls in my bedroom and imitated my favorite teachers. In my world of pretend, they became my students, and I taught them how to read and write.

It’s been many years now since the Christmas I received that chalkboard, but I sometimes think it played a vital part in shaping my destiny. I’m a fan of lifelong learning, and I still enjoy teaching others to read and write. I’m a college professor these days, and my students are young adults, not dolls or teddy bears, but I enjoy the written word as much as I ever did.

And I still own that chalkboard; it hangs on the wall in my office. It has become a symbol of my unwavering fascination with words.”

— Gloria Bennet, 2014

 Gloria is an accomplished writer. She writes poetry and prose and is a Pushcart Prize nominee for poetry. Her work has appeared in various literary journals and reviews. She teaches composition, literature, and creative writing at the University of North Georgia, where she is also the academic coordinator for writing and publication. She also serves on the Board of Directors and is a former President for the Georgia Writers Association. She is the current President of the Southern Literary Festival Association Executive Council. She recently published her first children's book, Summers at Howard Creek.

sale

Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

Thanks, Gloria, for sharing your lovely keepsake story with Project Keepsake, and good luck with your book!

What about you? Do you have a keepsake story? I encourage you to share your story with family and friends. Share the origins and histories of the most special keepsakes in your possession. Write down the stories that matter. Keep storytelling alive!

To read other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a signed copy of Project Keepsake by clicking the link on the right. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

If you live in Northwest Georgia, buy from one of these small businesses—Dave & Pauli's Art Emporium in Dalton, Cottage Treasures in Ringgold, Blue Willow Antiques in Cave Spring, The Lighthouse in Calhoun, the Harris Arts Center in Calhoun, or A Gift of Season in Calhoun, and the Payne Farm Vegetable Stand in Lily Pond.

Joy Comes in the Morning (Tiny Angel)

Through the miracle of social media, Jessica Hoefer-Land in Lake Oswego, Oregon heard about last month's Project Keepsake story contest. She submitted a story explaining the significance of a tiny silver angel she keeps.

Jessica Hoefer-Land holds her tiny angel and remembers her daughter.

Jessica's keepsake is a reminder of a child—a child who died. It was a hard story for me to read, because again, I felt a strong connection with the story and the storyteller.

We, too, lost children. Tragic. Shocking. Numbing. Draining. Devastating. Painful. Infuriating. Surreal. Sad. There really aren't words in the English language to describe the experience.

In our case, almost no one close to us knew what to say, so most people said nothing. Some people questioned me as if I had somehow caused one or more of the miscarriages—yet another emotional blow amid our grief. I defended myself. 

"No, I didn't drink caffeine," I answered. "No, I didn't even take a baby aspirin last week when I had that cold."

And so, my husband and I grieved privately—suffered in silence—with little or no support from family or friends. It was a dark, lonely time in our lives.

So, Jessica's story moved me when I read it. Her grandmother's gesture was kind and thoughtful and beautiful. Jessica's story is titled, "Joy Comes in the Morning." 

“When I was 37 years old, I experienced the loss of a child.

The news from my doctor informing me I was pregnant was shocking as my husband and I ‘thought’ we were done having children. Life had other plans and we accepted the news with some trepidation, quickly replaced by excitement.

Of course I immediately knew she was a girl and had chosen, along with my husband, ‘Charlotte Josephine’ or ‘Josie’, as her name. We wanted to honor my grandmothers by naming our daughter after two very influential women in my life.

All the while I felt like something was wrong. My morning sickness, unlike my first two pregnancies, was non-existent. I had no cravings, again a huge surprise. I seemed to be taking the pregnancy in stride health wise.

My doctor wasn’t concerned, citing that ‘every pregnancy is different.’ Despite what my doctor told me, I still felt a nagging sense of worry.

Thanksgiving morning dawned bright and lovely. Truly it was a day to be thankful as we headed to my mother’s farmhouse in the country anticipating a relaxing day, complete with Christmas movies and lots of pie. After dinner I started feeling odd and sadly, began to miscarry our baby. It was surreal in light of it being Thanksgiving, a day of thanks. I kept telling myself that perhaps it was just a minor complication, that the baby was still fine.

After a trip to the ER, the silence from the ultrasound tech as she exited the room, the screen void of any movement and confirmation by my physician, I was gently told that yes, I had miscarried and they were very sorry for my loss.

My post miscarriage depression hit harder than I had anticipated and I would find myself sitting in the chapel at a monastery mourning my loss and trying to understand the meaning behind it all. I found it terribly difficult to function and ended up in bed at my mother’s for a couple of weeks.

No anti depressant could cure this feeling of loss. My grandmother in her loving, kind way sent me a little a little angel keepsake pin and I clung to it as I grieved my loss. It was such a beautiful way to let me know my grandmother was honoring her memory. No words were needed, just this simple act of kindness was sufficient.

I continue to hold on to the little angel and I keep it where I can see it in my top drawer. Every day I am reminded of a little life that wasn’t meant for this earth but brought joy, even though it was temporary.

My life has changed in drastic ways since then. Another miscarriage, a divorce, a move, loss of close family and illness have redefined my priorities and what truly matters. Even though my daughter’s presence was but for a small time, her legacy lives in my heart and through the pain of loss I find joy knowing she was a part of me. I keep my little angel as a little memorial to her. It reminds me how greatly she was loved and how she will always be a part of my life. Her memory brings me joy in the midst of loss.”

— Jessica Hoefer-Land 2014

Jessica is a wannabe urban homesteader with a blended family of four kids, three rescue dogs, and four chickens. She writes fora variety of mom and urban living magazines, plus she shares her parenting adventures on her blog cleverly titled, The Dalai Mama (www.travlingmercies-jessica.blogspot.com).

I encourage all of you to share your stories—especially during the holidays. Turn off the cell phones and televisions, sit with your family members, and share the stories that matter. Keep storytelling alive!

Anita's Pearl Necklace

After reading Anita Thornton's keepsake story, I found myself back in time in my own childhood. My family wasn't poor, but we were part of the single-income, struggling lower middle class for a while. My brother, sister, and I shared a small bedroom in a neighborhood full of tiny dwellings on streets with names like McArthur, Arnold, Diggs, and Tinker. For several years, my parents shared one car—an old Ford sedan that refused to crank sometimes. The three of us walked to school with lunch boxes (and brown paper sacks) containing cheap sandwiches made from white Sunbeam bread and a layer of peanut butter or a slice of bologna.  We wore faded, hand-me-down clothes passed to us from our older cousins.

For Anita Thornton, a strand of pearls contains powerful memories.

And we seldom ate out because eating out was an expensive endeavor. But at the end of football season every year, my family would attend a banquet at a place called the Hof-Brau on North Davis Drive. It was one of those restaurants where the staff would grill you a juicy steak or a hamburger while you waited and serve it to you with a baked potato. I remember one glass display case full of jiggling jello squares in red, green, and yellow—I was in heaven. For me, going to the Hof-Brau was like fine dining at Ruth's Chris Steak House.

Like Anita, I often reflect on my parents' many sacrifices while they saved up pennies, nickels, and dimes to raise the three of us hooligans and send us to college. And so, I love Anita's story about the strand of pearls.

I read one time that it can take an oyster up to twenty years to form a pearl—about the same amount of time it takes to raise a child. And so, the gift Anita's mom gave her at graduation was simply perfection.

Enjoy Anita's story.

“An elegant strand of pearls holds powerful bittersweet memories for me.

My parents divorced as I finished fifth grade. My mom, in her early thirties, faced the daunting task of being primary caregiver and breadwinner for four children. She worked hard to provide our basic needs; but, there were rarely extras. It was always a source of pride for my mom that she was able to manage without any form of public assistance.

I attended elementary school in a rural community. I never noticed a dividing line between the haves and have nots. We may have all been have nots, or perhaps it just did not matter at that age.

Then, came high school. As my circle grew and I had more affluent friends, the difference became painfully obvious. My mom has told me she could remember me coming home mad because we were so poor.

For my college graduation, my mother gave me a beautiful pearl necklace. I wore the necklace proudly in my early career days. As trends go, pearls fell out of vogue, and I tucked my necklace away.

My mom passed away almost ten years ago. Recently, I came across the necklace. Instantly, memories flooded my mind... I thought about our hard times and being a parent now, and I recognize my mother’s sacrifice to give me such an expensive gift.

While I do not know the monetary value of my necklace, the memories and the love I feel when I place it on my neck are priceless.”

— Anita Thornton 2014

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Anita Thornton is a native of Murray County, Georgia. She's worked at carpet king, Shaw Industries for over thirty years. She's an active community volunteer. And she's a writer—a really wonderful writer. 

To read other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a signed copy of Project Keepsake. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

And if you live in Northwest Georgia, buy from one of these small businesses—Dave & Pauli's Art Emporium in Dalton, Cottage Treasures in Ringgold, Blue Willow Antiques in Cave Spring, The Lighthouse in Calhoun, the Harris Arts Center in Calhoun, or A Gift of Season in Calhoun.

And as always, I know you have a keepsake. Please share your keepsake story with me. Everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell. Keep storytelling alive, my friends.

Karli and the Young Folks Shelf of Books

Just after writing dynamo Karli Land moved into Northwest Georgia a few months ago, she started looking for other writers to hang out with and organized writers groups to join. We writers were hidden throughout the Coosa Valley like Easter eggs and finding us was not an easy task. A few of us met sporadically in downtown Calhoun for read and critique (and gossip and lunch) sessions, but Karli envisioned something more structured—a group that met routinely to share and talk about writing, publishing, platforms, etc. So she formed the Calhoun Area Writers and invited lots of local writers to attend and participate. I attended and am glad I did.

Karli and her heirloom books—reminders of her grandmother.

Since then, Karli's jumped straight into the deep end of the writing world. She's written several inspirational articles for the Calhoun Times. She's finished writing a children's book and found a publisher. She's written marvelous works of poetry. And she's attended writing events such as a book signing at Barnes & Noble in Rome, where I stood lonely and distressed at the lack of interest in my book, Project Keepsake. Karli waltzed in like a ray of sunshine and kept me company for an hour (along with my buddy, Wayne Minshew).

With her talent, energy, and desire to help others, I know that Karli has a bright writing future ahead of her. I look forward to seeing what lies beyond the bend for her.

She entered my Project Keepsake story contest. I loved her story and again felt a connection with her and her story. As a child, I, too, loved to read and learn. I, too, pretended to be a school teacher—teaching a small band of stuffed animals and dolls under our dining room table. And I, too, loved my grandmother with all my heart—everyone who knows me has heard me go on and on about Grandmother.

Here's Karli's keepsake story. Enjoy!

“Hindsight is 20/20. As a child, I could never have imagined just where I would be in life during my mid-thirties and how the 400 pages of one book would nudge me there.

I grew up in the tiny town of Frostproof, Florida. There wasn’t ever much to get into other than a few orange trees and a tiny arcade that sat in the back of a popular gas station. I do remember in the late 90’s when our quaint town hit it big time and watched as a McDonald’s was placed on the north end of nowhere. For awhile, you couldn’t pass a person without seeing the infamous red and yellow fry box in hand, but it wasn’t too long before the locals returned to their favorite hometown joints for a home cooked meal.

Perhaps my most favorite locale was the Latt Maxey Memorial Library. I spent many summer hours there reading every book I could get my hands on. I especially loved the summer reading program. I had very supportive parents who encouraged me and my book adventures and with the help of my mother, I even won a reading contest. That was a big year for me because they put my picture in the Frostproof News. During that time, my appetite for books was insatiable but my love for books and stories came long before then.

I grew up on Overocker Circle. I was fortunate in that we knew all of our neighbors and I was given free reign of the neighborhood to play and ride my bike after school. The family across the street had a pool that provided lots of enjoyment during the scorching summer months and most of the neighbors asked me to watch their pets when they went out of town, providing some extra spending money for the school store. I had friends that lived nearby who enjoyed much of the same outdoor activities as I did. We would snag oranges from the grove at the end of our road and climb up in a tree house to eat them. We bounced from house-to-house to see who had the best after-school snacks and who owned the newest Nintendo game. So many memories were made flying up and down those quiet streets on our ten-speeds and I wish more than anything that my children could experience them.

By far the best thing about living on Overocker Circle was the fact that I lived next door to my grandparents. I had a very close relationship with my grandmother and it is difficult to find any of my writings on my childhood without mention of her. She worked at the elementary school that I attended and would take me to school and bring me home. I would sit in the classroom with her before and after school and watch her grade papers and wash the chalkboards. She would hum the entire time that she worked and to this day, with focus and concentration, I can hear her tiny voice filling the room with church hymns. Aside from taking me to school, my grandmother took me to church. Many years of my childhood were spent in the Church of Christ. I would watch as she focused on each word being taught from the Bible and I still have her Bible which I hold very dear. However, this is not the book which I spoke of earlier.

In my grandmother’s house there was a den. That is where I spent most of my time during my visits. I would set up the room to look like a schoolhouse and I would teach my imaginary friends all of the things I had learned earlier that day while at school. My grandmother would even bring home left-over worksheets from her classroom so that I had teaching material. I would spend my afternoons grading blank papers and washing imaginary chalkboards just as I had watched her do.

Along the wall of the den there was a bookshelf. It was a small bookshelf and on the very bottom, it held a set of encyclopedias which I would skim through ever so often. On the shelf above the encyclopedias was a set of children’s books called The Young Folks Shelf of Books. The set included ten books filled with rhythms and stories and fairy tales. I own this set now and I share it with my children. It isn’t hard to notice the wear-and-tear that book one of the set contains that none of the other books do. Book one, less than 400 pages, yet in those pages are absolute classic characters; Georgie Porgie, Jack Sprat, and Little Tommy Tucker. Folk Tales like Henny Penny, Mr. and Mrs. Vinegar, and Red Riding Hood and page after page of stories like Peter Churchmouse, The Velveteen Rabbit, and Scaredy Cat. I’ve listened to every one of them over and over and could recite many by memory. But the greatest memory that I have isn’t of any of the stories or characters. It is the time spent curled up beside my grandmother, listening as she read to me, putting a funny voice with each character. It is those memories that I now see as the catapult for my love of reading and writing. I was given a gift in those days that I was blind to. I was given a love for words that now prompts me to get up every morning and put my thoughts to paper. ​

If I had known how short my days with my grandmother would be, I surely would have spent less time outside on a bicycle and much more time sitting beside her listening to her sweet voice, memorizing every feature of her face as she read to me. I can now only share those stories with my children in hopes that through them, the memory of my grandmother will live on.”

— Karli Land, 2014

Thanks for sharing your keepsake story, Karli. See you at the next Calhoun Area Writers meeting.

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To read other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a signed copy of Project Keepsake. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

And as always, I know you have a keepsake. Please share your keepsake story with me. Everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.

A Jewelry Box, a Brother's Love, a Revelation

I met Ginny Minniger several years ago at a Chattanooga Writers Guild event. As we chatted that night, she remarked, "I don't write much." Later that evening, I had the pleasure of hearing her read some of her writing. My mouth fell open. I commented, "You don't write much? Wow. You should."

Ginny Minniger's keepsake story won second place in the most recent keepsake story contest. She wrote about a small jewelry box.

She entered "Love is Given" in my contest. I loved it when I read it, and the judges did, too. One of the judges said, "Several passages appealed to me, but I really like the ending thought of this one: 'It has represented what I knew to be true—love is a given in families. When I open one of the little drawers to retrieve a ring or small trinket, it’s like opening a secret panel to my heart.'"

Another judge praised Ginny's honesty. "Not all families are like the perfect families depicted in Norman Rockwell's paintings, soap operas, or Hallmark movies," one of the male judges said. "Love is demonstrated in more than words and hugs and perfect Christmases and birthdays. Some families don't know how to show love, but most of the time, it is there."

Ginny's story ranked second among the keepsake stories in the contest, and I mailed her a writer's journal earlier this week. I hope it will inspire her to write more. Here's her story.

“We weren’t a warm and loving family, the five of us who shared space under one roof. The baggage my parents brought to their relationship overshadowed the potential for that.

I was the middle child with a brother five years older and a sister five years younger. Melding us as siblings would have taken skills my mother just didn’t have to give. She was still working through her own traumatic childhood when she assumed the roll of raising children. At times, I felt more like the adult than the dependent.

Interaction was limited. There were no family game nights, no good-natured teasing, no excited anticipation of Christmas morning. My mother was a realist. If there were gifts under the tree she wanted us to know that she was responsible for getting them there—not some strange man in a red suit who let himself into our house while we all slept.

As providers, my parents did their best to clothe and feed us. The population of our small, Mid-western town was mostly middle class. We may have been poor, but most of our neighbors lived similarly. There was no obvious keeping up with the Jones’ in Griffith, Indiana. It was only in adulthood that I realized how much stress must have been put upon Mom and Dad to stretch the modest income their small business generated.

Although I had observed behavior in my friend’s families that was different from ours and found myself envious of the hugs and encouragement they shared, I trusted that my parents and siblings loved me. We were a family! Love is a given in families, I reasoned. Still I longed to have tangible proof of that love.

My brother’s Senior Class Trip to Washington, D.C., and New York City, would provide that proof for me.

How exciting it was to observe him preparing and packing for the trip! We’d never taken a family vacation. My travel experience was limited to spending a week each summer with my grandmother who lived less than 20 miles away in a tiny retirement cottage. The train to D. C. was going to return him home in a week. I couldn’t wait to see him and pry from him every detail of the experience.

When he returned and unzipped his satchel to unpack, I was totally unprepared to receive a gift. He’d carefully selected and spent his hard-earned vacation money on a remembrance of his adventure for each of us. I was over-the-top thrilled to open the tiny, wooden jewelry box he’d chosen for me.

“He does love me!” I celebrated silently.

My keepsake from Jim still claims a place in plain sight on my dresser. For more than seven decades, it’s black lacquer finish a little cracked and chipped, it has represented what I knew to be true—love is a given in families. When I open one of the little drawers to retrieve a ring or small trinket, it’s like opening a secret panel to my heart.

We weren’t a warm and loving family, the five of us who shared a house. Still, once in awhile something spilled through the cracks that revealed deep caring and that something became a treasure. ”

— Ginny Minniger, 2014

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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

To read other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a copy of Project Keepsake. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

And as always, I know you have a keepsake. Please share your keepsake story with me. Everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.

And the Winner is... "Zebco 33"

Congratulations to Matt Baxter! Matt's story titled, "Zebco 33," is the official winner of the 2014 Project Keepsake Story contest.

Matt Baxter shared a story about a fishing reel (Zebco 33) that his grandfather gave to him after a fishing trip when Matt was about five years old.

Matt is a photographer (justshootmephotography.net) from Carrollton, Georgia who lives and works in Chattanooga. In fact, he submitted beautiful photographs of his beloved keepsake (a shiny Zebco 33 reel) to complement his story.

One of the judges commented, "I just love this story.  I think I'm drawn to it because it is so straightforward and direct, and because it is something that I can relate to from my childhood.  It just seems very honest and heartfelt."

I agree.

Then again, all of the keepsake stories I have read in the past few years exude an honest, genuine quality that is rare in today's storytelling.

I had planned to post the top two stories on this blog, but after reading through the entries, I have decided to post several throughout December as a thank you to the writers who sat down and composed stories and as a gift to my blog readers. Merry Christmas! Happy Holidays! Season's Greetings to all of you!

Here's Matt's story.

“Some of my earliest memories come from a time when I was about five years old. They involve my paternal grandpa, Horace Baxter. We called him, Pop.

Pop lived next door to my family in Carrollton, Georgia. Just about every day, I would walk down to his house to get some milk and cookies, and we would talk for hours about fishing, hunting, and all kinds of stuff.

I remember one day in particular, Pop and I decided to go fishing. We found an old log, rolled it over, and dug worms. We filled up a old coffee can with wiggling worms. Then we went over to a old well that was full of crickets and caught lots of those, too. After we retrieved enough bait, we took off to the lake.

My first fishing pole was a simple cane pole. My grandpa fished with a Zebco 33.

Pop helped me bait my hook with a worm, and I tossed it in the water. We sat there for awhile, and then the red and white bobber bounced up and down.

I screamed, “Pop! Pop! I think I got a fish!”

He said, “Pull back to hook him!”

Sure enough—I had a fish. It was a pretty big crappie. I was elated.

Pop was able to throw his line way out into the lake, and I watched with amazement.

“Wow, Pop,” I said. “You can cast so far away. What kind of fishing pole do you have, Pop?”

He answered, “It’s a Zebco.”

“Man, Pop! I want one like that so I can cast my line as far as you and catch bigger fish like you.”

About that time, his bobber started bouncing up and down. Pop motioned for me to move toward him.

“Come here,” he said. “I need some help. He’s a big one.”

Together, we started reeling him in. The fish was really putting up a fight, but we finally got him in—a big catfish.

Pop and I were both smiling from ear to ear.

When we got back home, we started cleaning the fish for a fish fry. My maw maw made hush puppies, cole slaw, and fried taters to go with our fish. It was a feast. I ate my fish—the one I caught all by myself—and it was delicious.

As I got ready to walk back home, Pop turned and said, “You’re forgetting something,” and he gave me his fishing pole with the Zebco 33.

I was so happy that I ran home and showed Mama and Daddy my new fishing pole. It was one of the best days of my childhood, and I think about it often. The Zebco turned into many years of fishing and fun and happy memories—some of the happiest.

Forty years later, I have it all cleaned up and ready to go fishing again. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Life was so simple when I was a young boy—fishing in nearby lakes and ponds, building teepees and forts in the woods, and being with family. We didn’t have a lot of money, but my family showered us with time and love. I miss that simple country life of yesterday, and I miss my grandpa—I miss fishing with Pop, talking to him, spending time with him. I think about him every time I lift that Zebco in my hand.”

— Matt Baxter

Thank you to this year's judges—Audrey Lanier, Paul Garrison, Dana Cooley-Keith, Mitzi Boyd, and Jake Andersen. After reviewing the stories, each judge sent me their top four selections with remarks, and I tallied the votes. All five told me that judging the contest was a lot harder than they had anticipated.

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Thank you again to all who wrote and entered keepsake stories. I enjoyed reading each story and connected with each story and storyteller.

Again, I will post several of the entries on this blog in the next four weeks. Stay tuned.

Project Keepsake is on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake or heirloom.

And as always, please share your keepsake stories with the people in your life. Everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell. 

The Soul of the Antique Table

Marvin and Joanne Lewis' lovely farm table.

On Saturday, I told you about meeting Marvin and Joanne Lewis and touring their beautiful 1936 home. Joanne wrote a keepsake story about a wooden bird figurine. Marvin chose to write about a spectacular antique table. 

I love antiques. When I have extra time, I browse the contents of local antique stores. I touch the items and ponder the utility of each. I wonder about the owners. I often contemplate how an item came to rest on the floor or shelf of the antique shop. Finding certain family treasures—photo albums, rosary beads, wedding gowns—troubles me. I think, "Surely there was someone in the family who found value in this item. Surely."

When I read Marvin Lewis' story about his antique farm table, I realized that I was not alone in my musings. He, too, wonders about the histories and origins of the antiques he and his wife purchase and place in the rooms of their home.

"The Farm Table" starts on page 216. Here's an excerpt.

“The oldest member of our family arrived in December of 2011. The simple draw-leaf farm table was crafted from a cherry tree that witnessed the French Revolution, perhaps by an aging revolutionary. It easily serves twelve—more when women and children are included. The worms that inscribed the leaves over the years possessed an art form belonging only to them.

Its history intrigues me. I often wonder what this table has witnessed. The political unrest and frequent change of the 1800s, an artistic revolution, and a cholera epidemic were certainly part of its history. But what else? I wonder what persons—famous or not—may have shared a meal or a bottle of wine over its surface.

Within the family, what transpired over nearly two hundred years? Over the five, six, or seven generations? Was there a mother who died in childbirth? A young bride who inherited a family older than she? It’s experienced the birth and death of generation after generation. What kind of lives did they lead? Simple? Heroic? Did the families struggle to survive or enjoy prosperity?

How many people shared a feast or just managed to survive while discussing their hopes and dreams, sorrows and tribulations around this table?

Our table witnessed two world wars. Were family members wounded or killed? Did occupying troops feast at this table? Or perhaps it was the liberators—our brave, scared, tired, heroic, frightened young Americans. Was a Jewish family shielded from the concentration camps and near-certain death? Or, was the patriarch a German collaborator?”

— Marvin Lewis, "The Farm Table" from Project Keepsake

Marvin and I share a questioning nature. Perhaps it's because we are both graduates of Georgia Tech. Go Jackets!

Thank you for sharing your story, Marvin. It's one of my favorites in the collection.

Little Downed Bird

I strolled through their magnificent home pausing in each room as Marvin and Joanne Lewis told me fascinating stories associated with objects featured in their home's eclectic decor. Their house reminded me of my parents-in-law's stylish home in Chattanooga—it had a museum-like quality showcasing a fine collection of interesting, intriguing pieces. Like a sponge, I absorbed the stories.

Joanne Lewis wrote a keepsake story about a little, wooden bird figurine. "Downed Bird" starts on page 114 of Project Keepsake.

"Do you want to see my little bird?" Joanne asked.

I nodded.

She floated over to a shelf and retrieved the wooden figurine with the grace and fluidity of a prima ballerina. She handed it to me with a flourish.

The little chicken possessed a whimsical quality that brought a smile to my face, and I understood immediately why Joanne had fallen under its spell.

She placed it back in its spot atop a glass rabbit mold, and we both stopped and admired it for a few seconds.

I love to be around interesting, intelligent, thoughtful, generous people, and the Lewis' certainly fall into this group. They appreciated my quest to collect keepsake stories, and both—yes, both—contributed to the story collection. I've pasted Joanne's keepsake story below. Perhaps tomorrow, I will post Marvin's story.

Joanne's story, titled, "Downed Bird," starts on page 114.

“It peeked up at me from its hiding place in the dirt and grass stubble. I bent over and picked up the little wooden object—a piece of dropped debris—a remnant of our local historical society’s rummage sale. It was a dried-out, wounded, hand-carved chicken about four inches tall.

Like a human face, one side looked better than the other. The left side of the little bird was missing one eye like a pirate. It had also lost a piece of its tail and had multiple gouges bitten out of its body as if it had been pecked by a rival. The right side was dirty and dry but completely unharmed.

I asked if I could purchase it.

“You want to buy that?” the woman asked with a tone inferring she thought my request was foolish or crazy.

“Yes, how much?”

“Just take it,” the woman said. “It has no value. We were going to throw it away, so no payment is necessary.”

I carried it home—my mind set on reviving the little bird. I washed it, dried it, and rubbed it with multiple doses of lemon oil. I polished it as if it was a precious gemstone. With each stroke, the dull brown surface soaked-in the oil revealing rich, beautiful wood grains. Soon, a dark chocolate color appeared.

My desire to know the history of the little object was strong, but even stronger was my desire to save the bird and have it start a new life with me among my most treasured possessions. And as I continued to breathe life into the little figurine, my affection for it grew.

Old objects fascinate me in that they have histories. Their histories often start before our beginnings and possibly go on well beyond our ends. In essence, they outlive us.

When we collect things—a cup, a book, a wooden chicken— we rescue them from oblivion, which to me is a stronger motivator to collect than the mere desire to own the pieces I buy. The fulfillment is not in the act of purchasing an item, but in the salvation.

The feeling I am preserving a piece of the past fills me with great pleasure and satisfaction. Maybe I am looking for the echoes of a refinement that existed in earlier times that have languished in today’s world—a sentiment I believe all generations have felt about the world in which they lived.

I turned the little brown bird upside down to record the date and place our history together began. I wrote, “Crown Gardens and Archives 10-31-09,” on the underside of its base, turned it upright, then carefully placed it on a shelf on top of a vintage, glass rabbit mold. This arrangement gave the two animals the whimsical appearance of two circus animals performing an act. The placement made me smile that day. Indeed, I smile every time I look at the little chicken—my heart growing fonder and fonder. It is a favorite of mine now.

I’ll never know why the little brown bird spoke to me that day in October. I’ll never understand why I selected the tattered figurine that had been so callously discarded in the grass— deemed worthless and destined for a landfill. And perhaps there is nothing to understand.

Maybe the answer is a simple one—that the encounter with the bird was no more than the chance meeting of two friends, and like friends, one does not belong to the other, but with each other.

Did I save the little bird, or did the little bird save me? I wonder sometimes, as I smile up at it riding the glass rabbit like a cowboy. Perhaps we saved each other.”

— Joanne Lewis, from Project Keepsake

From the moment that I read Joanne's first draft, I felt that her story was about transformations. I love the way she describes the little bird's metamorphosis.

Joanne is a Mary Washington College graduate with a Bachelor of Arts in history. She taught fifth grade, sixth grade and high school history. She is Chairman of the Board of Dalton, Georgia's Blunt House, a property of the Whitfield-Murray Historical Society, and chairman of the City of Dalton's Historic Preservation Commission. She is a collector of stray dogs and cats, linens, china, silver, decorative objects and art. 

sale

Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

To read other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a copy of Project Keepsake. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

As always, please share your keepsake story with me. Everyone has a keepsake, and every keepsake has a story to tell.

Contest, Contest, Contest!

UPDATE: Entries are being judged. Stay tuned!

Do you have a keepsake with a great story behind it? If so, take a few minutes and enter my 2014 Project Keepsake Story Contest. All you need is a keepsake, a photograph, a great story to share, and about 10 minutes to complete the entry form. For examples of keepsake stories, see the fifty-five stories featured in the book or read a few story excerpts posted on my blog. The first place winner wins a copy of Project Keepsake, a $25 MasterCard gift card, and special recognition on my blog during December. The second place winner wins a writer's journal.

1. Who is eligible to enter the contest? —You must be 18 years or older to enter. You must reside in the United States with a US mailing address. Project Keepsake story contributors (with stories in the book) are NOT eligible to compete. Family members and spouses of the judges are NOT eligible to compete. One entry per person, please.

 2. What is the deadline to enter? —Midnight on Friday, November 21, 2014.

 3. When will the winners be announced? —Monday, December 1, 2014.

 4. What are the prizes? —First Place wins a $25 MasterCard Gift Card + a copy of Project Keepsake + special recognition on the Project Keepsake blog. Second Place wins a writer's journal + special recognition on the Project Keepsake blog. Other entries may be featured on the Project Keepsake blog and social media as well.

 5. Who will judge the entries? —Four Project Keepsake story contributors and one Project Keepsake fan (a person who has read the book and attends keepsake events). I will reveal the judges after the contest is over.

 6. What is required to enter the contest? —You must fill out the entry form completely (name, address, email address, age range, keepsake story, photograph, and short bio). You must upload a nice photograph of your keepsake, along with a short nonfiction story (at least 300 words, but not over 1,800 words) about the keepsake (where it came from, why it's special, what memories the keepsake holds, etc.). By entering, you are certifying that the keepsake belongs to you and that the story is true.

 7. What qualifies as a keepsake? —Keepsakes, mementoes, souvenirs, and heirlooms are very similar. A keepsake is something with sentimental value. A memento is a reminder of a past event. A souvenir is a thing kept as a reminder of a person, place, or event. An heirloom is an object that belonged to a family member. So by definition—and from my perspective—mementoes, souvenirs, and heirlooms are all keepsakes. See the book for examples of keepsakes (a ring, a hat, a quilt, a vase, a baseball card, a fishing rod, a locket, etc.) and keepsake stories.

8. What can you do to help the project?

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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

• Buy a copy (or several copies) of Project Keepsake—a great gift item, especially when paired with a keepsake.
• Tell a friend about Project Keepsake.
• Invite me to come and speak at a club meeting, school function, library, church, or civic group meeting.
• Share my posts on Facebook, Twitter, or Pinterest.
• Become a Facebook fan (Project Keepsake) or Twitter follower (@AmberLNagle).
• Write a story about a keepsake and share with your family and friends.
• Write a positive book review on Amazon or GoodReads.

9. By entering the contest, you are agreeing to to allow me to publicize your story (along with your name and the photo you provide) on my blog, via social media, and in other media streams. You are not giving up rights to your story. You are just allowing me to present your story and photograph as part of Project Keepsake.

10. Here's the link to enter—http://fs30.formsite.com/ProjectKeepsake/form1/index.html Once you submit your entry form, you cannot go back and make changes to the form, so try to get it right the first time. If you have a problem, please contact me via my Contact page.

Dana Cooley-Keith's Shiny Silver Dollars

Years ago when Dana Cooley-Keith and I both worked in Dalton, Georgia, we often met for lunch to share a few belly laughs and exchange an array of interesting ideas and thoughts over sandwiches and glasses of sweet tea. Dana is a thinker, and I love to be around true thinkers. I've always enjoyed listening to her opinions on politics, social issues, and world affairs.

Dana Cooley-Keith wrote a lovely story about her silver dollar collection and her great-grandfather who gave her silver dollars and love. 

Dana pours her heart into everything she does. She was a powerhouse fundraiser for United Way of Northwest Georgia and raised millions for the organization's partner agencies. She managed both a second-chance home for teenage moms and a child advocacy and sexual assault center. She helped raise money for the largest homeless shelter in Northwest Georgia. There's no telling how many lives she's touched through her career and her volunteer activities.

Yet, she's always been there for a friend with a request—no matter how large or small. So when I mentioned Project Keepsake, to her, I knew Dana would come through. She was one of the first story contributors.

She wrote about a silver dollar collection she keeps safely stowed in a Gerber baby food jar disguised with a crocheted bunny slip cover. But her story is really about the kindness and boundless love extended to her and her siblings by her great-grandfather, a man who lived alone on a farm and went to a great deal of trouble to give his great-grandchildren something special when they visited.

Dana's story has always reminded me of childhood visits to my Aunt Sybol and Uncle Lewis' house outside of Metter, Georgia. As we left, my aunt and uncle walked us out to the car and retrieved silver change (quarters, dimes, and nickels) from the pockets of their apron and overalls. They handed the shiny coins through the backseat window to my siblings and me. "I love you," Aunt Sybol would say. "Y'all come back soon." She stood and waved bye to us until our Buick Skylark was way down the plowed dirt road where they lived. 

Dana's story, "A Stash of Shiny Silver Dollars" begins on page 125. I've pasted two of my favorite excerpts below. Enjoy!

“Dad was not a person who showed much physical affection nor did he ever tell me he loved me. However, the one gesture he made at the end of every trip would fill my heart with so much gratitude and love that neither words nor physical affection could have done more.

As we walked out on his old wooden porch and approached the dirt driveway, Dad reached deeply into his pocket. I remember the clinking sound that indicated that we were one second closer to receiving our treasure. My brother, Kenny, and I overflowed with excitement and anticipation. We could hardly contain ourselves. Then Dad’s aged, leathery hand would reappear gripping tokens of his affection—shiny silver dollars for me and Kenny.

....................

Dad didn’t own a car, and I never knew of him leaving the farm, so I wasn’t sure how he got the silver dollars and the rolls of pennies. As a young girl, I thought he must have a secret stash of silver dollars hidden somewhere on his farm—adding yet another layer of interest to his life. But as I grew older, I realized that my great-grandfather went to a great deal of trouble to get those treasures for us. He must have planned well in advance of our visits—asking neighbors to carry him into town to the small community bank to get the coins.

Dad continued to give us these treasures until the day he died. He was ninety-three years old.

I kept every silver dollar Dad gave to me, and I have obediently saved every silver dollar I have come across as an adult. Today, I have my own secret stash of silver dollars. I keep some of them in a Gerber baby food jar cleverly disguised as a pink bunny—a gift my aunt made and gave to me when I was about twelve.

The coins remind me of Dad—Silver Dollar Dad— and how special my siblings and I must have been to him. I appreciate his sharing his knowledge, his love, and his kindness with us. Most of all, I thank him for teaching me that love is often found in the smallest gestures of life, and that these small gestures of love can sometimes make a big difference to a child.”

— Dana Cooley-Keith

And Dana made this for me—another keepsake. I love it!

Did I mention that Dana is creative and artistic, too? After Project Keepsake was published, she surprised me with a handmade work of art. I keep the canvas on the wall next to my desk. Looking at it makes me smile, reminds me of Dana and her timeless friendship, and inspires me to keep collecting the stories that matter.

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Thank you Dana for your many words of wisdom through the years. I'm so thankful that we met and became thick-as-thieves friends. 

To read all of Dana's story and other stories about keepsakes and the memories they hold, please purchase a copy of Project Keepsake. It's on sale now with no shipping and handling charges. And by the way, it's a great Christmas gift for a loved one, especially when paired with a keepsake.

And as always, please share your keepsake story with me. 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. 

Lucky Lottery Numbers—My Sister's Story

Audrey Lanier Andersen has starred in many of my favorite scenes in the movie of my life. Her life was always more interesting than mine, and so I followed her around everywhere and smothered her with too much little-sister attention. In retrospect, I suppose I often drove her to the brink of insanity. 

My sister, Audrey Lanier Andersen, shared a keepsake story about lottery numbers jotted on a piece of paper. The story is really about our father.

As sisters, we shared a small bedroom in our family’s ranch-style house in Bonaire, Georgia. I watched her apply her makeup and curl her hair before dates, her leaning way back in a wooden chair in front our big dresser mirror. She was a cheerleader, and she practiced her cheers and jumps—high, sprawling, precise Spread Eagles and Herkies—in front of that same big mirror for hours, landing softly on the gold, shag carpet that covered our home’s concrete slab. I wore her stylish hand-me-downs clothes, which because of Audrey’s meticulous nature, were always in near-perfect condition. And after she got her driver’s license and her own car (a powder blue Volkswagen), I took my place in the passenger seat next to her to run errands and take joy rides all over town.

I was my sister’s sidekick, and I never questioned or minded her being my boss or leader. I was more than willing to follow along.

My sister wrote and contributed a story for Project Keepsake. The story features a scrap of paper my father left for her just days before he died in 1992. He had scribbled some lottery numbers on the paper intending for her to play the numbers in the Illinois state lottery. Her story begins on page 97.

“I pulled my navy blue Ford Explorer into the garage and quickly shut the overhead door to seal out the sweltering heat. It was August in Southern Illinois. The heat and humidity rivaled anything I had ever experienced in my seventeen years growing up in Middle Georgia.

I had just escorted my parents to the airport in St. Louis and driven the twenty-five miles back to my home in O’Fallon, Illinois. I stepped inside my kitchen, draped my purse over the back of a chair, and reached across the counter to hang my keys on the hook—that’s when I noticed the single scrap of pale blue paper. I studied it. It had been torn hastily from my notepad, and left deliberately on the center of my desk with a twenty dollar bill.

Written on the piece of paper were two rows of numbers:

2 - 6 – 9 – 19 – 30 – 33 ($10)
8 – 13 – 28 – 36 – 43 – 47 ($10)

I recognized my father’s rushed handwriting and instantly understood what he had secretly left there for me to find upon my return.

I glanced at the clock and preformed some quick calculations in my head. My parents had surely touched down safely at the Atlanta airport and been greeted at their gate by my sister. Amber was responsible for helping them navigate the airport labyrinth and for driving them back to their home in Warner Robins, Georgia.

Standing alone in my kitchen, I smiled at the idea of playing Daddy’s lottery numbers for him. It was 1992 and at that time Georgia did not have a state lottery, but Illinois did. The possibility, albeit remote, of winning a $10 million jackpot intrigued my father. He had always been a bit of a gambling man—hustling unsuspecting men at local pool and billiard halls and taking his friends’ petty cash in late night games of poker. Playing the lottery was right up his alley, and the numbers written on that scrap of paper represented the extravagant dreams of a fifty-eight-year-old man.

I examined the digits closely. While the second row of numbers appeared to be completely random, the first row of numbers was familiar to me—each of those numbers represented a birth date of a member of our family. A sudden revelation ensued: my dad’s lucky numbers were our birthdays.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Years passed. I was so busy raising my kids that the sense of loss I experienced when my father died somewhat dissipated, and I completely forgot about the lottery numbers I had stashed in my nightstand for safekeeping.

But one day, my mind drifted back to them, and I had an irrepressible desire to find the paper and hold it in my hand. We had moved eight times in eight years, and with each move, we had packed, shipped, and unpacked the contents of our home. As I rushed through the house toward my bedroom, my anxiety swelled. I felt sick. I feared that the paper bearing my father’s lucky lottery numbers would not be in the drawer—that it would be lost forever.

I fumbled through the contents like I mad woman. The funeral program had migrated to the back of the drawer. When I lifted it, I caught a glimpse of Andrew Jackson’s crumpled face. And then I saw the numbers—safe and sound.

Today, that simple piece of paper is one of my most cherished keepsakes. It connects me to the things I always want to remember about my dad—that while he was a practical and hardworking man, he possessed a playful and imaginative quality, as well; that he was very satisfied with everything he had and everything he was; that he loved us all; and that he was proud of each of us.

I pay almost no attention to the lottery and have never played his numbers, even though I sometimes think I should. To me, his numbers are not lucky because I could potentially play them and win a big monetary jackpot. They are lucky to me because they represent the last thing my father gave to me—something that was in his very own handwriting; something that came from his wallet; something special to him that he secretly left for only me.

I occasionally look at the numbers and the twenty dollar bill and imagine my dad standing in my kitchen. He jots the numbers down from heart then rips the paper from the notepad. He reaches into his wallet and pulls out a twenty. He grins. He dreams. He walks out of my house.”

— Audrey Lanier Andersen from Project Keepsake

Several readers have remarked, “Wow, both you and your sister chose to write about keepsakes that remind you of your dad. He must have been quite a man.”

Amber (with goofy hat) and Audrey (with stylish headband) at the baseball field circa 1969.

Yes, he was. I miss him every day. We all do. 

Sometimes when my thoughts drift back in time, I see my sister, my dad, and I together doing things. I see us picking blackberries near my Grandmother Lanier’s farmhouse outside of Metter, Georgia. We had crossed through a neighbor’s (Mr. Rat’s) barbed-wire fencing to get to some of the largest, most succulent blackberries I’d ever seen in my life, all the while keeping our eyes glued on a big, ornery bull that stood guard nearby. The three of us picked berries as fast as our hands could move, filled our bowls, jumped back through the fence, then walked back to Grandmother’s house via the dirt road that crossed the branch. Mom, Grandmother, and my Aunt Colleen whipped up scrumptious blackberry cobbler that afternoon, and my sister, my father and I told the tale of risking our lives so that the family could have dessert.

Another memory that comes and goes is of the three of us canvassing the woods around Lizella, Georgia in Decembers in search of the perfect red cedar tree to complement our Christmas festivities. Audrey and I chose the tree, and Daddy cut it down, dragged it to the truck, and drove the three of us home. My sister and I spent hours decorating the tree, and arguing about the amount of tinsel to toss over its branches. My brother and I loved flashing, gaudy, Las Vegas style Christmas trees—the kind that cause perfectly healthy individuals to have seizures. Audrey was a minimalist and stood her ground to ensure our trees remained classy and tasteful.

Again, everyone in my family misses my father, but Audrey and I have both written some of our memories down. We have photographs, memories, stories, and our keepsakes to help keep him close to us. 

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Thanks again to my sister for writing such a wonderful tribute to my father for Project Keepsake and for the sisterly love she has showered upon me for half a century.

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. 

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. 

The Eastman Chemical Tank Car

I browsed various Tumblr blog posts this morning and paused to read through a list of thought-provoking questions.

Paul Garrison's story about a model train car is part of Project Keepsake. 

147. Mars for Snickers? 
Definitely Snickers, I thought.
148. What's your favorite quote?
Thoreau's "In wildness is the preservation of the world," popped into my mind.
149. Do you believe in ghosts?
Maybe.
150. Get the closest book next to you, open it to page 42, what's the first line on that page?

I grabbed my copy of Project Keepsake, flipped to page 42, and instantly recognized the story as Paul Garrison's "The Eastman Chemical Tank Car,"  a hauntingly beautiful story chronicling the life of an adopted son as he faces the death of his parents and searches for some type of resolution to the events of his life. 

I know Garrison, and he doesn't consider himself a writer, yet his story is one of the most powerful stories in the collection. It stars a cast of real people I knew long ago, living tragic, tormented lives—divorce, sudden death, neglect, psychological abuse, dementia, grief. I wept the first time I read it. 

At the core of the story is a young boy's innocence, imagination, and his love of train sets—a simple and almost universal concept.

“The trains were not really my toy trains—they were my father’s. The train set came out only once a year, for about a month around Christmas. My father, Lawrence Garrison, pulled out the boxes and assembled all the pieces into electromechanical magnificence.”

— Paul Garrison from Project Keepsake

Just like the other stories in the book, Garrison's story isn't really about his keepsake. His model train car holds thousands of memories. He condensed the memories and emotions down and penned the story. Here's another excerpt from the book. 

“Each new day brought new tracks and new destinations. Uncle Georgy provided for me and Georgia, making sure we had life’s necessities and doing his best to make us decent, well-adjusted people. We eventually called him ‘Dad,’ and he became our dad, though to him, I was still, ‘Snot.’

Over the next thirty-six years, I experienced mostly great fortune. I did not get drafted into war. I graduated from Georgia Tech, met my beautiful wife, Annie, and found excellent work. Annie and I travelled the world and participated in the Internet boom. I lived a life most would envy.

Then in 2009, Uncle Georgy’s—Dad’s—health declined dramatically. He developed what he called a serious case of the don’t give a shits. For years, he had been the main caregiver for my mother, who lived with dementia and stayed in bed all day, every day. He lost a lot of weight and was not too concerned about any of it.

He died in May that year. I had seen it coming and was as prepared as I could be. I told my mom, but she never fully digested the news. Georgia and I found a funeral home and scheduled the cremation, just as Dad requested. He had asked us to plan the least expensive funeral possible, and we obliged. We bought an inexpensive, marble urn for his ashes.”

— Paul Garrison from Project Keepsake

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Garrison's story reminds us that like a train, life barrels down its course taking different tracks as directed by some grand engineer. We can't stop it. Some of the changes are welcome, while others are not. 

Do you have a keepsake? Where did it come from? Why is it special? Share the story.

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. 

Dolly Parton—A Simple Piece of Wood

I caught a glimpse of the original steel magnolia cradling her guitar as I flipped through the thin, glossy pages of Southern Living Magazine last Sunday afternoon. Divine Dolly Parton. Sweet, singing, songwriting Southern royalty. Jennifer V. Cole had the good fortune of sitting down and interviewing Dolly for the Southern Living feature. I surged with envy, wishing the magazine had hired me instead.

Beloved Dolly Parton talked about a keepsake in a recent interview with Southern Living Magazine.

As a child of the Sixties and Seventies, I grew up watching and listening to Dolly on The Porter Wagoner Show and her variety show, Dolly!  Her angelic voice, her big platinum blonde locks, her curvaceous figure, and her vibrantly-colored, sequined jumpsuits with the tight waists and bell bottom pants will forever be etched in my childhood memories. 

“Coat of Many Colors,” “Hard Candy Christmas,” and “I Will Always Love You” are among my all time favorites. Indeed, Dolly and I have sung these songs together hundreds of times in the car, though she was never physically present for our dynamic duets.

Her harmonies with Brad Paisley in “When I Get Where I’m Going” gave the song wings, and boy, it soared. It soared sky high.

But what does Dolly Parton have to do with Project Keepsake? In her interview with Southern Living, she spoke of a time capsule that will be opened in 2045 at DreamMore, and she mentioned a certain keepsake that grabbed my attention—a piece of wood from the porch of her childhood home. The interviewer asked her what the plank meant to her.

“It just makes me think of Mama and Daddy and my childhood. It’s not just [about] being a star, but [about] who I was then—and who I still am—and the way [my parents] helped mold and shape [my brothers and sisters and me] into the kind of people that we’ve become. It says a lot about that family unit, about the people and the mountains. It’s from my humble beginnings; in America all things are possible and dreams can come true. All of those little pieces of your past, they’re all important.

…But I think people just always used to gather on days like today when it’s too hot to be in a house. You get outside and sit on your porch—that’s where you do your biggest dreaming. ”

— Dolly Parton, Southern Living Magazine, October 2014

Dolly has placed a piece of wood from the porch of her childhood home in a time capsule at DreamMore. It's a symbol of family, love, and Southern culture. 

I read every word, closed the magazine, turned to my husband, and said, "I knew it. I knew it. I knew Dolly had keepsakes."

He looked over at me for a moment then turned his attention back to the football game. 

Just before Project Keepsake was published, I sent a copy of my manuscript to her people and asked them to share it with her. I knew it was a long shot, but I tried anyway. I had hoped Dolly would read the keepsake stories, embrace the project, and possibly, write a blurb for me, but that’s not what happened. A few months after my request, I received a very polite rejection letter in the mail. I emphasize the word, polite.

Still, reading Dolly’s interview in Southern Living validated my belief that everyone—even Dolly Parton—has a keepsake and every keepsake has a story to tell. Just as mine do, Dolly's keepsakes surround her with rich, powerful memories.

We all keep and hold onto objects that link us to the memories we care most about. We keep things so we will remember, but somewhere along the way, our keepsakes take on lives of their own and define where we came from, what matters to us, and perhaps most of all, who we are.

That piece of wood from the porch of her family's cabin—that simple keepsake—says a lot about who Dolly Parton is.

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Thank you, Dolly, for your magnificent music, your wisdom, your grace, your many acts of charity and kindness, and most of all, for your sharing so much of your heart and soul with us throughout your illustrious career.

Do you have a keepsake? Where did it come from? Why is it special? Share the story.

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, too.

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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Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

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.

Friends and Signet Rings

David Aft has been a helpful, generous friend since 2001 when we first worked together at a nonprofit organization in Northwest Georgia. We've always had chemistry and rapport, especially evident in our social and political views and opinions. 

David Aft wrote a story about Harry Aft's signet ring, passed to him after his grandfather's death.

Go back in time with me to the week after I told David about my idea to collect and publish stories about keepsakes. He stood in front of my desk and read his keepsake story aloud to me as if he was delivering a soliloquy from Hamlet. He wrote a story about an heirloom—his grandfather's signet ring. He keeps it safely stowed in a safe deposit box, but he showed it to me on the day he read me his story.

But writing and giving me his story was just the beginning. He was determined to help me achieve my dream of publishing a book of keepsake stories, and so he twisted the arms of many family members and friends and somehow convinced others to contribute stories to my collection, too. I’m not sure how he shook them down, but he did. I got beautifully-crafted stories from his parents. From Tom Durkan. From Joanne and Marvin Lewis. And from his wife, Pauline, who wrote a haunting, retrospective story about a pill box hat. I will feature excerpts from all of these stories in the future, but today, I give you an excerpt from David Aft’s story, “The Signet Ring.”

“The ring is simple and elegant, far different from my memories of Grandpa Harry, whose 6-foot 3-inch frame never projected either elegance or simplicity. I learned that the ring was a gift from his father, a modest immigrant from Eastern Europe who brought little but his faith from the Urals in 1908. According to family folklore, the ring was a present on my grandfather’s eighteenth birthday. I imagine that the ring was acquired at significant sacrifice, as my grandfather turned eighteen at the height of the Great Depression.

I cherish the ring. I look at it often, although I almost never wear it.

I think at some level we all struggle with finding authenticity in our lives—a meaning that transcends the day-to-day stuff and gives us an emotional and historical touchstone. My personal quest probably won’t end with my grandfather’s signet ring, but there is a gentle certainty in knowing that other than DNA, his ring is probably the only other thing in this world that my great grandfather, grandfather, father and I have shared—have touched. My son and hopefully his son will eventually share this memento and, through its modest presence, understand that they are part of something that is larger than themselves.

They will never know Harry Aft, nor will his ring ever convey his towering presence, steadfast work ethic or penchant for corny jokes. They will never understand his love of baseball and passion for fresh-squeezed orange juice. What I hope they will understand is that we value his life and understand its relation to our own. Further, I hope they understand that it is not merely the links that make a chain strong, but their interconnectedness that gives them permanence. Harry’s signet ring is my link.”

— David Aft from Project Keepsake

Signed copies of Project Keepsake are available at Dave & Pauli's Art Emporium in downtown Dalton.

But there's more to the story. David and Pauline recently opened Dave & Pauli’s Art Emporium (www.daveandpaulis.com), a working artist’s studio and art gallery specializing in creative works by local and regional artists in downtown Dalton. It’s open on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays.

Just a few days before opening the doors, they toured me through the gallery as if I was the Queen of England. The gallery explodes with bold, vibrant colors and interesting works, almost as if it is a living, breathing being pulsing with creativity. Upstairs, they've created an intimate music lounge like none other in Northwest Georgia. I was captivated—simply captivated!

And then I saw something familiar on their counter—something blue. I was speechless. I've had such a hard time getting the big book stores to carry Project Keepsake, but my friends jumped in and saved me. Dave & Pauli’s is the only place in Dalton offering Project Keepsake.

Thank you David, and thank you Pauline. You are great friends—real keepers—and I wish you every success with Dave & Pauli’s Art Emporium and in the other endeavors that fill your life from this day forward.

sale

Sale Price:$16.99 Original Price:$18.99

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.