Every time
I walk past my Ghee’s old straw hat, I wonder if he’d be proud of who I
am. That old hat sits on a horseshoe
hook in our utility room. It’s now
“mine” but in nine years, I’ve yet to wear it and Mom knows better than to try
to get rid of it. I don’t hang onto
much, but that hat ain’t goin’ nowhere.
Then
there’s Pappaw’s handful of coins that sit in a small box, tucked away in my
desk. When I open that box, I remember
him telling me stories about the places he’d been, even though I was too young
to appreciate any of it. That money’s
still good somewhere, but the thought that those coins meant something to
Pappaw makes me shut that lid and tuck the box away every time.
Gheegee, well, she kept a lot of…crap. However, she was right in thinking some of
the treasures she kept would mean something to some of us. We dug up a letter Dad wrote to the Easter
Bunny one of the first years Uncle Tommy was able to hunt eggs:
Dear Easter Bunny,
Please hide Tommy’s eggs on the east
side of the house. Hide mine on the west
side.
Love,
Clabe
That
letter, at one point in time, was trivial to everyone but Gheegee. She knew someday Dad would pick up that
letter and shake his head.
I think
about the things left to us by those who are no longer with us and it epitomizes one of my favorite sayings: "The best things in life aren't things." I am so often frustrated with how many
expensive, flashy things I think I must have because they add some aesthetic pleasure
to my life. In those moments, I fail to
recognize the things in my life that add value.
How much have I missed? What did
I miss out on learning?
Last week,
my precious Mammaw stayed with us and I got to drive her home one evening. As we drove, she reflected upon things she’d
done and experiences she’d had in the past.
She told me how, when she was in high school in Wink, Texas, if the
black kids wanted to go any further than junior high, they had to go to school
in Hobbs, NM (a 70 mile commute). I
asked her if, when she saw that happening, she knew it was wrong or if she
just accepted it as how life was.
“Oh no. I
knew it was wrong. I knew they didn’t
deserve to be treated like that,” her voice suddenly went soft, “You know, Jen,”
her voice now shook and tears started falling, “When Dr. King and all those
people marched in Washington, it just broke my heart that I couldn’t be there
with him.”
I forgot my pride as she and I cried together, relishing in the raw
compassion we shared in that moment. The conversation continued (as well as the tears) and that night, my life and my experience gained value. I could have easily turned on the radio and driven home to the music or NPR program I wanted to hear. We would have enjoyed each others' presence and life would be fine, but what would I have gained? The latest on Syria? Uncle Tupelo's latest single? That moment was like God saying, "Hey you. Selfish. Stop tuning out the important people and listen. You're gonna want to hear this."
Y'all these conversations and these moments of value don't have to come from your grandparents. They come from peers, parents, neighbors, children, and strangers. People. We've become so enamored with temporary fixes that we've forgotten what value the human experience has when it is shared in a deep, conversational, thoughtful manner. This is not one of those delete-all-social-media-and-move-to-Zimbabwe posts. Use Twitter. Use Facebook. Use Instagram. But y'all, give a damn. Liking, favoriting, and sharing something does not translate into genuine compassion and concern. If someone's on your mind, text them. Call them. Learn how to have a conversation again.
There are things that cost money and there are things with value. The moment I told my mom we needed to put down our phones and play Scrabble together; that was valuable. The conversation with Mammaw: valuable. The memories in Ghee's hat, Pappaw's coins, and Gheegee's letters: those are my treasures. Those memories are lessons. They're fears, temptations, and wrongdoings. They're victories, laughter, and love. Listen to 'em. They're worth hearing.
