Beech Tree News Network

On Saturday, I took the birdhouse from its perch on the gate post that leads into my raised beds, so I could repaint it.  Garey was going by on the mower as I was loosening the screws that held it in place.

He stopped.

“I’m going to repaint this,” I said.

“There’s nothing to repaint,” he said.

He was right.  The birdhouse was in bad shape.  One side was crumbling from rot, the nails had mostly worked themselves loose, and it was basically falling apart.  If I had sneezed while trying to remove it from its home of seven years, it would have been no more.

“I’m going to fix it first,” I said, as I continued to back out the screws with my drill that held it to the gate post.

I had my work cut out for me.  I found some wood filler that hadn’t dried up in the tube—a miracle in itself, I took as a good omen—and some wood glue, and I set to work.  I started with the side that had rotted and added layers of wood filler.  I scraped off the debris that had collected on the roof and carefully removed the old nails.  It was a good start, but it’s going to take a few more days before this project is completed.

“Why are you doing this?” Garey asked.  It was a legitimate question.  Afterall, I have several newer birdhouses stored away, waiting to be put on posts.

“This is the birdhouse you and Sabria made together, and she remembers it,” I said.

Sabria was just five years old when Garey and she took on the birdhouse project.  When it was completed, she painted the whole thing pink then drew a heart on the mounting board it is attached to.

Sabria remembers everything, and she is very sentimental.  She is so much like her Great Grandmother Aggie in that respect.  She attaches memories to objects, and she doesn’t want those objects done away with.

We are remodeling our kitchen, and I am replacing the kitchen table with an island and barstools.  

“Do not get rid of that table, Gee,” she said.  “That’s our craft table.  You can move it, just don’t get rid of it.”

“Ok, Little Bee,” I said, “I won’t get rid of it.”

This little girl is why I have a gazillion things stored in a gazillion different places in my house.  When she is grown, she will either have to move in here or rent three storage units in the town of her choice to hold everything she wants to hold on to.

Garey and his sister, Charlotte, are in the throes of getting rid of all the stuff their mother, Aggie, held on to in her lifetime, as well as all the things their dad, J.D., held onto in his lifetime that Aggie wouldn’t let go of, in the 28 years in which she outlived her husband.

Aggie had drawers of gowns and other lingerie that her sisters had given her, many of which she never wore, because her sisters had given them to her.  Once, she told me of a card her parents had given her years before.  It still contained the hundred-dollar bill they enclosed.  She said she kept it, because she knew how hard it had been for them to come up with one hundred dollars.  A few years ago, Charlotte suggested to Aggie that she swap the Total Gym, that was stored under her bed, for the bicycle exercise machine we had at our house.  Aggie said she didn’t want to do that, because her grandsons (Charlotte’s boys) had given her the Total Gym for her birthday. (They had given her the gift several years before.)  Charlotte finally convinced her to swap or, knowing Charlotte, brow beat her into swapping.  (Currently, the Total Gym is stored under our guest room bed, where it will someday be discovered—a relic of the past.)

 I am guilty, as well, of attaching memories to objects.  I have small things on the bookshelf in my bedroom that will never mean anything to anybody else but me.  I have my grandmother’s wooden spools and a couple of old plates, one each belonging to my two grandmothers.    There are a lot of things in my past that I don’t want to remember.  I keep these small things, so I will remember the good things in my past.  They are the talismans that take me on a sentimental journey.