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13 february 2001 |
hanging on And then there was Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Jones was a lifelong member of Black Mountain United Methodist Church. The kids my age only knew her as an independent entity, as Mr. Jones was long past. I liked to visit her, too. She was smart. Mrs. Jones went to church as regularly as possible, attended the Ladies' groups, and rarely missed a community gathering. She made and sold stuff at bake sales and bazaars. She knew everyone's names. She hugged and kissed like you and I blink--naturally. I don't know if it was because I was sort of naive, or just noticably unconcerned with being cool as a teenager. Whatever the reason, many of the older folks in my community took kindly to me. I was sincerely interested in them and their lives, so our friendships were mutually beneficial. They got to talk, and I got to listen. Pretty sweet deal when you think about it. So one afternoon, I popped over to Mrs. Jones' place. She lived downtown in a comfortable old apartment, which was filled to the gills with richly-colored wood items. Wood floors, wooden furniture, antique cabinets--the works. Awesome yet functional. The chair in which I sat was next to a west-facing window, and I remember the sun shining on me until I just barely broke a sweat. I felt just about perfect. We were talking about this and that, mostly me asking questions about her best times back in the day, and her not skipping a beat. Mrs. Jones had raised a couple of boys, who grew up to be entirely respectable and still loyal to their mom. And her husband--she loved that husband. She didn't fear him, nor did she get lost in him. She just loved him, and continued to live and speak with authority. And when Mr. Jones passed, she honored him with a persistent twinkle in her eye. Earth, wind, fire, water, Mrs. Jones. She grabbed a mid-sized box from one of those big old cabinets. The years opened up and smelled like cedar. On top of it all was a black and white studio photograph of Mrs. Jones. She was in college at the time and gorgeous, with long, auburn hair and sharp eyes. This is my favorite thing, though, she said, and pulled out the photograph. From deeper inside the box, she removed something that made my stomach drop to my feet, and helped me to understand the importance of saving touchable things. When, someday, I might not be able to explain, or prove, who I once was when I was younger. I asked her if I could hold it for a moment. A lock of hair, braided. It is good to feel gently tethered to days gone by. |
