Loving One Another

Posts tagged ‘Memories’

Childhood Memories


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I saw him approaching me
At the Historical Society’s event.
They were honoring our family,
So folks came to join us – or greetings sent.

He approached with arms extended
And I immediately recognized his face,
Even though I hadn’t seen him since
I’d moved from our homeland’s place.

I returned the hug and marveled
At the way I was transported
Back to when at four years old,
A little tuxedo he sported.

In my taffeta dress of sparkling white
And matching patent leather shoes,
I stood with flowers of yellow hue
In contrast to the bridesmaids’ blues.

Across from me carrying ring on pillow
Was my friend, Frankie, looking sharp.
We thought we were getting married, too,
As we stood and listened to the harp.

I backed up from our friendly hug
And stood looking at my friend.
My eyes glistened with tears of joy
As I was transported back again.

Back to the days when I would sit
Down on the living room floor
And try to duplicate his accordion’s sounds
On a small squeezebox, wishing for more.

More songs to play than that little box could,
More buttons to push on the left,
More keys to play on the piano side;
Wishing I could read the treble clef.

Frankie’s mother, whom I called Aunt Olga,
Although she wasn’t a blood relative at all,
Sent me home with the accordion saying,
“Play for your mom, then bring it back. Don’t fall!”

Across the rocky driveway I went
With that eight button squeezebox in hand.
My mom heard me play “Twinkle Twinkle”
And “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”

“How did you learn to play that thing?”
I could tell she was impressed.
I played again so we could sing along
As I fingered the keys and buttons depressed.

Transported back to Mrs. Jensen,
Who gave me a lesson or two
Before she said, “This accordion isn’t capable
Of doing more than you already do.”

Transported back to Girl Scout Camp
In the Sierra Nevada Mountains so green,
To the day when my parents surprised me
With the most beautiful accordion I’d ever seen.

It had one hundred twenty bass keys,
And the keyboard reached down to my knees.
Pearly white with sparkling gold keys,
I took lessons until I could play the Dance of the Bees!

Frankie reminded me I paid for the small one
With the allowance I saved every week.
Twenty-five bucks was a lot in those days.
I smiled as we parted with a kiss on the cheek.

There is nothing more precious, nothing more sweet,
Than childhood memories, friends from days past,
Chances to reconnect with those you love,
Recreate memories – and make new ones that last.

Jan Beekman
9/14/17

Life is Like a Teeter-Totter


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Back in 1991 I wrote a poem for my mom to wish her a Happy Birthday. With the framed poem, I gave her a ceramic teeter-totter. The piece is a wind-up music box that plays “Playmates” as the little mice go up and down. She always had the poem and music box with her the next fourteen years as she was in and out of hospitals, rehab facilities, and nursing homes. When she died, I inherited them – and I treasure the memories they bring to mind.

My mom had a cousin close to her age, Madge, who lived with mom’s family when she was a child. Eventually Madge married and moved into a home of her own. She and her husband had two sons, Ronnie & Donnie. Mom married and moved to California where my sister and I were born. I loved meeting and spending time with my cousins when we would go to spend Christmas vacation back in Washington with Mom’s family. Through the years I have stayed in touch with Ronnie. He is near my age. However, I had lost touch with Ronnie’s little brother, Donnie, until last Saturday.

Donnie, whom I had not seen in 60 years, and his wife, Patti, came to spend this Labor Day weekend with Bob and me. What a treat! We reminisced and told stories and went through family photos and various family “artifacts.” One of my inherited treasures is a letter written on the occasion of our mutual great-grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. They were married September 1, 1875. The letter is “A Saga of the Valley” – the valley in and around North Bend and Fall City, Washington where my mother and Donnie’s mom were born and raised. The letter was typed on onion skin, is brittle and faded, and hard to read – but is is legible. I will retype it and send it to my newly reacquainted cousin, Donnie. He will share it with his daughter who is into the study of genealogies.

As I was headed into the office to my computer, I spotted this ceramic teeter-totter music box. I realized I had forgotten to share that with Donnie. His mom, like mine, was a devoted mother who was wonderfully supportive of her two sons. I think he will appreciate this poem – and he certainly will concur – Life is Like a Teeter-Totter!

Life is like a teeter-totter –
Full of ups and downs.
Kids learn to roll and toss with it,
To shake away the frowns,
If they have a loving home
To lean back and reminisce on when they roam.

Life is like a teeter-totter –
Full of bounces and of bumps.
Kids learn to rock with a jolly jump
And shake away the lumps
If they have a loving mother
To hug them tight and with kisses smother.

Life is like a teeter-totter –
It works better in pairs,
They keep each ther balanced
And handle love in shares
If they have had their mother’s arms
To guard against abuse and harms.

Life is like a teeter-totter –
Full of laugh and silly giggle.
Full of noise and wonderment –
Girls to squeeze and boys that wiggle –
If they have been secure in love
Both from home’s hearth and God above.

Thank you, Mom, for filling my life
With love… more ups than downs, for sure.
You seemed to know my every need;
For every hurt you had a cure.
Happy Birthday, Mother dear –
I thank God each day that you are near!

God Bless our Moms!!
JanBeek ;o)

Give It Away Now!


I have an old, tattered book end. It’s quite chipped. On it is an old man with a sombrero and a donkey, moulded out of plaster of paris. I think the set probably was purchased by my parents back in the late thirties shortly after they were married. Is that old Mexican fellow feeding his donkey or is he pulling the stubborn animal, trying to get him to go where he wants him? I prefer the latter story. This old piece of “junk” is probably not worth much on the open market. I doubt I’d get a quarter for it in a yard sale. But, to me –  it’s priceless. My sister and I used to make up stories about this old fella when we were kids. It’s place of honor was on a table in the sitting room where the furniture of blond wood and red fabric was a wedding gift from Dad’s best friend. He and Dad had a bet about which of them would marry first. Dad won. The friend bought Dad a red sofa, chair, ottoman, and a table with matching blond wood. My niece has the furniture. My sister, Sally, has one of the book-ends. I have the other.

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The book-end sits on the crowded bookshelf in my living room here in Montana. It doesn’t draw much attention to itself in the spot where I have it placed, but yesterday I met the old man’s parents – or maybe his elderly cousins. Made of the same plaster of paris, painted the same hues of yellow and red with touches of green, the elderly couple were front and center on the mantle in a new friend’s home. They were sitting closely on a wooden bench, knapsack thrown to the side where he was sitting, umbrella leaning on her side. Years of living together made them almost look as if they could be brother-sister, but experience told you – no, they were a husband and wife – and if that couple could talk, they’d have 60+ years of stories to share. My eyes were riveted on them as I asked my friend if her honored couple had a story. She didn’t speak. I looked at her. Tears welled up and her voice was husky. She whispered, “Oh yes!”

“Will you tell me?” I asked.

“Do you have time?”

“For this story, I have all the time in the world,” I replied.

We took a seat on her lovely white brocade sofa. “When I was a little girl,” she began… (somehow i knew the piece had to date back fifty years or more, so her introduction didn’t surprise me)… “my dear father used to take my mom every now and then to the local jewelry store and let her pick out a piece of jewelry. My sister and I were not trusted in the store where so many pretty, shiny things were sitting at finger-tip level, so we waited (in good weather) outside the store while they went in to do their shopping. In the window of Severson’s Jewelry Store sat this carving. My sister and I called the old couple Grandma and Grandpa. To pass the time while our parents were inside, we made up stories about them. Our imaginations were wild, and we kept one another well entertained. One day when we arrived at the store, the old carving was not in the window. Mr. Severson had brought it inside. It was in a glass case at the back of the store. He said it was time to revamp the store’s windows. With a promise that we would not touch anything, our parents let us come inside and sit in front of the glass case. By the twinkle in his eye and his occasional chuckle, we could tell the store owner was eavesdropping on our story-telling and enjoying the tales my sis and I created.

“Eventually Mr. Severson retired, the store was closed, and the old couple on the carved bench disappeared. My sister disappeared at about the same time. She was twelve years old when she was tragically killed in a car accident. Mr. and Mrs. Severson came to her funeral to express their condolences. A few years later, we went to Mrs. Severson’s funeral to express our condolences to the jeweler who had become an old friend of the family by that time.

Years went by. I graduated and went away to work. I was home one weekend visiting my parents when there was a knock on the door. Mr. Severson stood there with a wrapped box. Inside was that precious carving – Grandma and Grandpa on the bench. ‘You need this,’ he said. Speechless, I hugged him. ‘It means as much to you as it does to me,’ he explained. ‘It’s time I give it away now.’

“Does it have a story?” my friend repeated my question. “What story would you like to create for Grandma and Grandpa today?”

I came home and pulled my book-end off the shelf. I looked at that old man with the donkey and wondered, is it time to give him away? Should I give it away now? Is there anyone to whom it means as much as it does to me? I wonder…

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