Monday, May 3, 2010
The other day, the boys and I went to the tire park. It has a real name, but we just call it the tire park, because, well, obviously.
There's a short window of time before this park shifts from whimsical and charming to searing hot and stinky. Black rubber doesn't work well in the sun.
This visit, however, was decidedly delightful.
I love the idea of recycling. To make something great out of something deemed useless--it's magical, really. The alchemy of everyday things.
I love the stories of recycled things. As I stood in that park, I imagined the tires whispering, "I used to plow soybeans!" or "The guy that drove me was a real asshole."
It's weird, perhaps, but it makes me smile.
The stories are everywhere---in old barn boards now insulating my friend's house or in the quiet, meticulous stitches of my grandmother's embroidery.
Yesterday, as I sat in my mother-in-law's garden, we shared our memories of the lilacs and the peonies. We measured the time, one plant at a time, as the sapling of my early marriage now towered over us, providing blessed shade.
Soon, I will be with my mother, and I want to hear the stories of her objects. I want to learn about her jewelry. What does she wear when she needs to feel brave? Do any of the pieces honor people, or moments, or both?
Tell me, I will say. Tell me the stories of the quilts, the furniture, the paintings, the books. I am ready to listen. Your words--your objects---your stories.
I am ready. Let's let the whispers out, as we recycle one story at a time.