In Defense of the Written Word

I was just over at my mom's house visiting with her and looking through her Christmas cards. She has received over fifty cards so far this year and nearly every one had a handwritten paragraph or two on the card itself or a personal letter - not the generic kind - tucked inside. The notes were filled with updates, warm sentiments, and remembrances of times the sender shared with Mom over the past year.  I can honestly say that awaiting the mailman's arrival and the day's bounty of cards have become one of the highlights of her day.  She treasures each message and the connection she has with her friends across the country.

The interesting thing is, Mom doesn't just receive these cards and messages at Christmas.  She really makes an effort, and has for as long as I can remember, to stay in contact with people that she cares about.  While she telephones those who are closest to her, sending cards and letters is her chosen form of communication.  A few weeks ago she was telling me what was happening in the life of the woman who used to clean her house in Illinois and I was surprised that she even knew.  She had written to Angie, she explained to me, and Angie had sent her a nice long letter back.  Mom showed me a card she received from Elena, the home health care nurse who looked after my sister when she was sick.  Elena had recently had a baby, so she sent a photo of her growing family.  I was amazed that she had maintained contact with someone who had passed in and out of our lives two years ago.  Mom explained to me that Elena had been a godsend to my sister with her gentle touch and compassionate words. Months after my sister had died, Elena had had her baby and Mom had sent a baby gift.  From that moment they continued to keep in touch - perhaps only a birthday and Christmas card, but both still choosing to make the effort.

It really got me thinking.  Back when I was a girl still living at home with my parents, I had several "pen pals."  Of course this was long before computers and smart phones so there were no emails, texts or Skype.  Each day's bulging mailbox was full of possibilities - who would I get a letter from today?  Now, sadly, it is mostly sales circulars and junk mail that I receive.  I realize that I have done a great deal to contribute to this lack of written communication in my own life.  For the past few years I have pared my Christmas card list down or not sent cards at all.  I barely remember to send birthday cards, and when I do, they are often hastily mailed with only an obligatory sentence or two dashed off inside, but devoid of the kind of message that would have required time and thought.  And letters?  Hah!  I've even gotten behind in emails more often than not because my life is so busy.  I've even noticed that when I write more than a paragraph in cursive, my hand hurts a little.  How sad.

I miss having a stack of letters tied with a a pretty ribbon to read and re-read.  I miss the excitement of posting a letter to a far-away friend or cousin, knowing that in a week or two an envelope would be waiting for me when I came home.  I used to receive Christmas cards from people I hadn't seen in years and those cards were our one connection to catch up and hear what was going on in our respective lives.  This year, I didn't even get a fraction of the ones I got like clockwork each year in the past.

If I am to make any resolutions for the new year, perhaps this is a good place to start.  There is real beauty and goodness in the act of putting pen to paper to share our thoughts and feelings with the people in our lives. Merely taking time out of our day to do this is an implied act of thoughtfulness and care and the words themselves - well, they can be the kind of message that's appreciated and can brighten someone else's day or they can be letters that are put away to be savored over and over again throughout the years. 

I remember a friend once told me that you only get out of life what you put into it.  It seems to me that putting more effort into staying connected with the people in my life will be something that I will never regret spending  precious minutes of my life on.

Legacy

When I woke up this morning I didn't have any intentions for the day beyond enjoying time with my granddaughter and a friend's little boy, doing some laundry and writing out a few Christmas cards.  You know what I mean - one of those unscripted but predictable days that would most likely play out like so many others, absent the manic highs and lows that drama often brings.

For the past week or two I had been thinking about Laurie, an old friend from my high school and college days, that I had lost touch with way back in the 70's.  Laurie and I met while working Saturdays and summers at Capper & Capper, a men's clothing store in the Chicago Loop, while we were both in high school.  I liked her immediately - she was a bit brash and occasionally irreverent with a razor sharp wit and and a wicked sense of humor.  We had scads of inside jokes and our own nicknames for the powers-that-be at work which kept us in stitches.
  
On our lunch hour we would walk over to St. Peter's Catholic Church and she would attempt to school me in Catholic doctrine while I was seduced by the scent of melting wax, flickering candles and beautiful statues.  These trips to St. Peter's and Laurie's private catechism class were my first real encounters with Catholicism, and though I didn't make the decision to convert until I was in college, I have no doubt that Laurie was responsible for opening that door for me.  This, for me, was a life changing event and one I never, for one second regretted.

She and I went to see Franco Zefferelli's Romeo and Juliet the night it opened, then took the train back to her house in La Grange and spent the night up talking about the breathtaking beauty of the film.  We both bought the soundtrack and memorized huge chunks of dialog (which I can still recite to this day).  We had ice cream sundaes for breakfast while at her house with her mom's full approval - something that would never have happened at my buttoned down home- and laughed it off since ice cream was a dairy product.  These might seem like small, inconsequential things as you read them, but all these years later, they are such lovely, indelible memories.

During the kid's nap time today, I finally got on the computer and spent about 20 minutes doing various internet searches trying to find Laurie.  And what I found was that Laurie had died in 2003 - eleven whole years ago. Though I had lost track of her and hadn't even spoken to her for almost forty years, I felt like I was punched in the gut.  I was filled with sadness for her early passing, for her family, and for the missed opportunity to tell her how much I still treasure those crazy adventures we had so long ago.  How I can so easily recall doubling over in laughter over something funny she said; how she started me off on my faith journey; how I can still picture the two of us as if it was yesterday, walking down Madison street bundled up in our winter wear eating Fannie May candy out of paper bags.

It got me thinking, once again, about my own mortality and what sort of legacy I would be leaving.  I'm pretty sure, by this stage in my life, that I'm not going to be one of those people who goes down in the history books for doing something to change  the world.  After initially feeling sort of bummed that my life may end up being unremarkable in many ways, I realized that my purpose and legacy didn't have to be worthy of history books or the evening news.  Legacies and what we leave for those who have been in our life's orbit can be as simple as the kind of memories that Laurie left for me.  My initial wave of sadness at Laurie's passing gave way to gratefulness that I still had those fabulous memories to draw on - even though I didn't have the chance to tell her how much it meant to me.  My hope is, that whenever I'm gone, someone (and hopefully more than one person) will think about me years later and remember something we did or something I said.  I need to start each morning truly excited about the possibilities the day might offer and not settle for sleepwalking through it on auto pilot. Because you never know how the smallest daily interaction will be remembered down the road and if I live my life, really live my life, hopefully my legacy will be greater than "she was nice."

Identity

In the months leading up to the birth of my first granddaughter, Taylor, I agonized over finding the right Grandmother Name.  I always knew that I didn't want to be "Grandma"  or "Grandma Ogata" (a name that belonged solely to my mother-in-law), but didn't have a clue to what name I wanted to be known by my grandchildren.  

All of the other future grandparents in our family seemed to have their choices all sewn up.  Taylor's other grandparents would be "Oma" and "Opa", one of my daughter's in-laws would be "Nana" and "Bobba" and my other daughter's in-laws had chosen "Nannie" and "Pappy" long before either of the girls were pregnant.  I didn't really have grandparent models in my own life - both my maternal grandparents and paternal grandmother had died before I was born and my paternal grandfather died when I was about four, so my memories of him were hazy at best.

It became a bit of a consuming mission of mine, to find that perfect name.  At first I thought Mike and I would go with the Japanese Baachan and Giisan, but my son didn't like that at all and thought it was too much of a mouthful for little ones.  I poured over websites and message boards dedicated to grandparent monikers and polled my friends and eventually landed on "Mimi" which sounded both cute and hip to me.  But wait.... not so fast, Linda!  My daughter-in-law, Melissa, informed me that her entire family called her "MeMe" and it would be incredibly confusing down the road if we shared the same name.  Plus, she had already decided to be "Auntie MeMe" to Taylor.  Back to the drawing boards!

My son chided me for over thinking the whole thing.  "Just be Grandma, there's nothing wrong with that name," he admonished me.  There was an element of truth to what he was saying, but I didn't feel like Grandma.  I knew the upcoming role I was about to take on would add a new dimension to my identity and I desperately wanted it to jibe with how I saw myself.  I suppose there was a little bit of that Baby Boomer I'm-Never-Getting-Old mentality in the mix too, if I'm honest with myself.

At any rate, one day, out of the blue, I decided on "Gigi."  It was easy to say, it was easy to spell, and most importantly, it seemed to fit my perception of the kind of grandmother I wanted to be.  I was going to be hands-on, approachable (not stern), wise, playful, and infinitely loving.  

Now I have four grandchildren.  So far, two of them can say "Gigi" and to me, it is the sweetest word in the English language.  I've been happy with this name and never looked for or expected to find any kind of affirmation of my choice.  But find it, I did.

Those of you who have followed this blog know that my 85 year old mom moved down here from Illinois last month.  To say she brought a lot of "stuff" with her is a huge understatement, and unpacking all of it (without pitching a lot of it when her back was turned) has been a challenge.  About 3 weeks ago in the bottom of one box I found a baggie with six tarnished silver spoons in it.  "Mom, what is this?  Is it something you really need?" I asked, hoping she would let me redirect it to the garbage pile.  "Oh, that's for you," she answered.  "These were from your Dad's family from way back and I thought you might want them."

Yes, I wanted them!  I loved having something that belonged to the grandmother or great grandmother that I never knew.  It was a gift - a connection - and really, aside from my maiden name and DNA, one of the only things I had from that side of the family.  I put the baggie in my purse to look at when I got home.

When I took the first spoon out of the baggie I noticed the initials MDC engraved on the back.  Martha Dennis Cushman, my great grandmother.  That alone put a smile on my face.  It was almost like she was reaching across the years to hand this to me.  "We didn't know each other", she'd say, "but you're my great granddaughter and a part of me and I love you."  It may sound silly, but having something tangible to connect with her meant so much.  And then, turning the spoon over to inspect the other side, I found the best thing of all.  Engraved on the front of the spoon that single sweet word, "Gigi."

A Matter of Perspective

Perspective is an interesting thing.  Lately I feel as though the tectonic plates of my personal landscape have been constantly shifting and I've come to expect the unexpected on a pretty much a daily basis.

Ever since my younger sister passed away about a year and a half ago, I've been after my mom to move down to Florida to be close to us.  Believe me when I say this has not been an easy sell.  My mom has lived her whole life in the Chicago area and at 85 years old, change of any kind is not especially welcome.  She frets about finding a new hairdresser, doctor(s), church and making new friends.  Truthfully, I had been pushing her for selfish reasons.  I wanted her to live a few minutes drive away instead of 1100 miles away so that I could be there instantly in case she needed me.  I also wanted to continue building our new "just the two of us" relationship that seems to have evolved into something much nicer than it was when I was a teenager.  And finally, I'll admit that aside from seeing her, I didn't much enjoy the trips up to the out-of-the-way farm community that she lived in.

Finally, this past spring she agreed.  She was insistent that she would not live with us, that she wanted to maintain her independence as long as she could.  Mike and I have a four bedroom house so we were at a bit of a loss to understand why she wouldn't just come with us, but she wouldn't waver.  After much hunting and reviewing several options, she decided to purchase a small home in a retirement community about 7 minutes away from me.  Perfect!  The plan was (is) that over the summer I would work with various vendors and contractors to get her new place in ship shape order and in mid September I'd fly up and drive her and her car down here. One week ago was the closing and I got to work immediately.

Suddenly, there is a potentially big wrinkle.  Mom has developed a serious eye infection in her left eye which is being treated, but could possibly cause her to lose all or some of her vision in that

eye.  She has acknowledged that this may portend the end of her driving days which scares and saddens her.  It scares and saddens me too.  I realize that even though she desperately wanted to be independent, she may end up being quite dependent on me after all.  

As I was explaining her situation to my son yesterday it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks.  This could so easily be Mike and I in 25 (or less) years.  I love all of my children dearly, but do I want to depend on them to chauffeur me around or look after me on a 24/7 basis?  My immediate reaction is "no way!"  I may look at it differently if I eventually  find myself in a situation like hers - maybe I would be relieved if one or more of my kids stepped up and insisted on taking care of me.  The idea, though, of being dependent or being a burden on my children or grandchildren is abhorrent to me.  I picture them arguing amongst themselves "It's your turn to go see them, I went the other day!" - "No, it's your turn, I can't go - the kids have a soccer game" - you get the picture.

With this shift in perspective I can appreciate her insistence on independence, though if it turns out she loses her sight in one eye, she may well have to reconcile a much higher degree of dependence than she's comfortable with.  Whether she loses her vision or not, our dynamic is likely going to change in the coming months as she makes her move here.  The reality is that she's 85 and has mobility issues.  At some point, I may end up her full time caregiver.  I want to be a good daughter and be there for her for a myriad of reasons (far too many to delve into right now).  I hope that when our roles have truly reversed and I find myself  exhausted, impatient or resentful that I'm able to remind myself that one day this will be my reality, too and hold on to my compassion and sense of humor.  I see this as a test, of sorts, of my moral fiber and I hope I can be the person I want to be. Time, as they say, will tell.

Snug

Have you ever ducked inside your house or car just before the heavens let loose with an incredible thunderstorm?  You know the kind - with thunder so deep and rumbly that it shakes the windows.  Jagged bolts of lightning illuminate the sky for a split second and you see others scurrying to make it safely inside.  Rain comes in torrents.  Sideways, furiously, backing up storm drains and creating huge puddles and flooded viaducts.

Or perhaps you woke up one morning in February to a fierce wind blowing down the chimney flue and swirling around the attic.  As you look outside you only see snow coming down so hard that it's as if a gray fog had settled over your entire neighborhood and became three dimensional.  Branches covered with ice tap against the kitchen window while you start the tea kettle.  The weatherman on television warns ominously of sub-zero wind chill factors and caution us to stay inside if we can.

Remember how safe you felt within your shelter?  How somewhere from within, a primal sort of feeling was evoked - of being safe and warm and protected against the elements?  Whenever this happens to me, whether it's that feeling of safety against the fury of nature or something as basic as a flight or fight reaction to a confrontational circumstance, I am both reminded and reassured of how these elemental instincts bind us all together as brothers and sisters.  I marvel at how certain gut emotions and reactions are, for all practical purposes, out of our control - they are just a part of our hard wiring as humans.  

It can be the smallest things that connect us all, even though we seem light years apart in many other ways.  But the smallest things, I've found, can be cause for celebration and it has become one of the joys in my life to look for commonality among the people that seem  the most polar opposite to me.  A sort of game, you know?  And so far, when I put my mind to it, there hasn't been one person that I haven't been able to find some strand of a connection with if I really try.  Would you like to play?  Your turn...

Girl Next Door

As I was growing up in the sixties, I had a very well defined idea of how I wanted to look.  My points of reference were pictures and articles in Fifteen or Seventeen magazines and ads for suntan lotion.  Back in those days, the desired look was that of a California blonde surfer girl,  British Carnaby Street model, or the all American girl next door.  I studied pictures of the models for everything from Sun- In to Bass Weejuns, trying valiantly to replicate whatever I could to bring me one inch closer to those ideals.

I had a few challenges along the way.  First of all, I lived in Illinois, so trying to adopt the persona of a sun kissed teenager with long, straight blonde hair and a perpetual tan was almost laughable.  Plus, I had plain old brown hair that had a natural wave and had a tendency to frizz up in the summer humidity. 

I couldn't even remotely mimic the style of the English rose with heavy eye makeup, pale lipstick and mini skirts like Twiggy or Jean Shrimpton.  That was so far off base from my reality that I didn't even try to co-opt that look as my own.

That left all American girl, which was by far the easiest look to emulate.  I stocked my wardrobe with the de rigueur kilts, wool shorts, vee neck sweaters, knee socks and loafers.  Ambush or Heaven Scent were my go-to colognes, dabbed sparingly at my pulse points - all tools to help create the look and aura I was after.  Just one big problem remained.  Thanks to my dad, I had a whole face full of freckles.  Not a cute sprinkling across my nose, mind you - full out freckles everywhere.  Conventional wisdom may have suggested that freckles would work well with the whole girl next door theme, but in my version of that reality, freckles were the biggest obstacle to being cute.  Freckles made me plain and pedestrian and I detested them.

In the back section of one of the magazines, I found an ad for Stillman's Freckle Cream.  The ad  promised that the cream would bleach away the horrid spots and leave my skin creamy and even toned.  It wasn't cheap.  I had to save my allowance for a long time before I could send away for the cream.  I reasoned that two jars would be necessary since I was cursed with such an awful case.  After weeks and weeks of scrimping, I was able to buy the Stillman's.  I can't begin to describe the joy I felt when I saw the package containing miracle creams had arrived.  I was on the cusp of a fresh, freckle-free look, and I could hardly wait.

Every night I faithfully applied the cream, following the directions to the letter.  After the first jar was gone, I thought I saw a minor change and was glad I'd had the foresight to order two jars to get the job completely done.  Again, I diligently rubbed the Stillman's in every night before going to sleep, confident I was just weeks away from a new face.

Those of you who have known me for years know that this experiment failed completely.  At the end of the second jar of Stillman's Freckle Cream, the only thing I'd lost was some of my allowance money.  As time went on I learned that make up could help cover the freckles to a certain extent and the burning urgency to get rid of them faded and eventually moved to the back burner. 

Once I moved into adulthood, something surprising happened.  Summers in the sun made my freckles multiply and get darker and I found myself kind of liking it.  My husband commented on it once, telling me my summer freckle explosion made me look so cute.  Cute!  That was, after all, what I was always after - having a boy that I loved think I was cute.  It was another curious life lesson - realizing that whatever bits and pieces that make up who I am are as much a part of my identity as my finger prints.  To be sure, I'm not a Pollyanna that puts a fake positive spin on   my tendency to flabby upper arms or ugly eyebrows. And I'm pretty sure that ten years from now I won't find those things cute but I try not to get my knickers in a twist over things that are what they are.

Now I live in Florida, where the sun is usually shining.  My freckles are in perpetual bloom, which is something I rather like.  And every once in awhile when I'm looking in the mirror and see them in all their glory, I find myself smiling and think "Huh, who would have thought..."

When Daddy Let Me Drive

I've always thought I've led a fairly vanilla life.  No apologies - it's pretty much reflective of where and how I was raised and I've come to terms with the fact that there haven't been a lot of BIG exciting things that have happened on my journey (so far).  There are a few exceptions, though.

When I was fifteen years old I was able to get my driver's learner permit.  I was signed up for driver's ed at the high school I attended and I fully expected my parents to let me do practice driving as often as possible. Wrong.

My dad was an over-the-road semi truck driver.  He made round trip runs from Chicago to Battle Creek, or Kalamazoo, Michigan five nights a week and saw plenty of car accidents throughout the years.  I'm sure in his mind he projected my face on to the identity of each of the drivers in those accidents.  My mom was a little more laid back on the subject of me driving, but she had already abdicated her involvement in my learning to drive to my dad who was a "professional."

We had a  maroon Ford Galaxy back then.  For some reason, my dad was a die hard Ford man and we always had some variation of one of their boring cars - Falcon, Galaxy, and so forth. Since my dad was nearly 26 years older than my mom, we had already missed the window for him to go through a mid-life crisis and buy a red Mustang or (gasp) even a Chevy.  I really hadn't thought about the car itself too much, because it was really only a means to an end - the vehicle that would help teach me to drive. 

I was doing pretty well in driver's ed at school.  The instructor we had, one of the school's science teachers, wore lime cologne and made us listen to country music while we drove, softly singing along to songs I'd never heard.   It made me a little car sick.  I was, however, a parallel parker par excellence.  The instructor said if they gave out medals for parallel parking, I'd be the first one in line to have one pinned on my coat - he'd never seen anyone do such a fine job.

I tried using that as leverage with my dad.  He relented a little and took me practice driving in the high school parking lot.  Round and round we'd go:  in the front entrance,  back to the pool entrance and all the way back around to the front again.  Over and over and over.  I longed for open road driving and constantly pestered my dad for a chance.  "Not quite yet," he'd say.  "Soon."

My sixteenth birthday was approaching in four short months.  I felt comfortable driving out in traffic because of driver's ed, so I was reasonably sure that my official driver's license was just a few months away.

Then, one mid-summer day, everything changed.  My parents had gone to trade in the Galaxy for the current year's model earlier in the day.  When they finally came home, my mom was smiling and my dad tossed the new set of keys in my direction.  "Want to take the new car for a spin?" he asked.  Never one to turn down a chance to drive - especially a brand new car, I grabbed my wallet and headed out the front door with him.

In the driveway, instead of another nondescript Galaxy, there stood a sleek and proud gold Gran Torino with a sporty fastback and (be still my heart) racing stripes!  I couldn't have been more surprised if I'd found James Bond's Aston Martin in the driveway.  This was ours???  And I could actually drive it?

We drove up and down the streets of my hometown that day and many more that followed.  I felt  special and noticed - feelings that were a bit foreign to me. Something in the magic of that car made my dad lose some of his fear that I'd get in an accident and he took me driving frequently. I really believe that car also gave me more confidence in myself.  It also made me realize that my parents still had the ability to surprise me, which was a bit of a surprise in itself.  

Yes, for the most part my life is still vanilla (unless you count two sets of twins as exciting...).
Oh, there have been some exciting times and memorable ones, too, but that summer day that I slid into the front seat of the gold Gran Torino and turned the key in the ignition ranks up there with the memories that I cherish the most.

Gone

I spent twenty six years of my life behind the counter at Triangle Camera at the corner of Broadway and Stratford on Chicago's north side.  I started out helping my future mother-in-law do typesetting for Chicago's Japanese newspaper, The Chicago Shimpo, graduated to counter sales and eventually became the store manager.  In between, I got married to Mike, had four children and lived in three of the apartments upstairs from the store.

We worked together, Mike and I, along with my mother-in-law, Jennie and my sister-in-law, Evie.  Though our staff changed frequently (as retail staff is prone to do),  the people that worked for us were like extended family.  They were there at our wedding, celebrated the birth of our children and mourned the passing of one of our co-workers and my mother-in-law.  Like many large, dysfunctional families, we had our disagreements and tiffs but they usually passed and we forgave each other.

When I met Mike, long before we were married, Triangle looked like the first picture.  The shelves were crammed with photo chemicals, paper and darkroom supplies.  Beautiful, intricate cameras stood proudly on stands that said Nikon or Canon or Leica.  There were several "groupies" who used to hang out there on Monday and Thursday nights when we were open until 9 pm, just to talk photo, peppered with stories of my late father-in-law and the days of Triangle's infancy.  I didn't know a thing about photography, I used to joke, I only married into it, but it became an integral part of my life.

How privileged I was to become friends with so many of our loyal customers, who chose  to have us develop their precious film  rather than  at the local drugstore.  We were there to see the pictures that created snapshots of their lives.  I still get Christmas cards and Facebook messages from a few of them - a sort of thread that connects my old life and new life together.

Our photo lab, a converted first floor apartment on the Stratford side, had pencil marks along side one door frame:  Brett and Ryan 6 years or Amy and Lauren 9 years -  moments in time preserved in pencil lead.  My children had the run of the store since we lived upstairs.  They knew all of our staff and many of our customers.  They would walk there after school and lay sprawled on the floor of the office in their Mt. Carmel Academy uniforms, diagramming sentences or writing reports.  Our dog, Pepper, was there too, standing perpetual guard at the top of the stairs, mostly sleeping, but rousing every so often to take himself out for a walk to the fire hydrant on Stratford.

Well, the whole photo industry changed, as you all know.  Digital photography replaced film and people weren't printing out their pictures.  Cameras were hard to sell when we had to compete with internet merchants who didn't have the overhead of a brick and mortar store to cut into their margins. There was a lot of drama as we coped to adjust.  Then, in late 2003, my mother-in-law passed away and the last true connection to the Triangle Camera of 1953 was gone.

We made a valiant effort to keep it going, but I think we knew, in our heart of hearts even then, that the time had come to say our good-byes and move on.  And so, the building was sold and Triangle Camera closed it's doors on December 31, 2005.

For many years, the new owner left the Triangle space as it was - a sort of hollow and ghostly monument to what used to be.  We moved to Florida and started new lives, but friends from the neighborhood or vendor representatives from our Triangle days would email us updates.  "Still empty", they'd report.  "Just like you left it."  Until now.

Someone emailed me a link to the photo gallery of the restaurant that finally opened in the old Triangle space.  It had been magnificently remodeled and bore little resemblance to the space that had begun as a modest camera store nearly sixty years ago.  I was impressed and very happy to see new life breathed into the building and the retail space that had lain empty for so long.  I showed the pictures to Mike and emailed the link to my children and my niece.  "Look," I said - "see how fabulous the old Triangle space looks!"  Everyone agreed it looked wonderful and oohed and aahed over the exposed brick and gleaming floors.

Later that night, as we were on our nightly walk, Mike said that seeing the pictures made him kind of sad.  He said that he had the fleeting thought that he wished it was still empty - with all of our lives memories preserved inside - rather than look beautiful and shiny-new, but as foreign as a place we'd never seen.  And then my daughter said the exact same thing and I started to think.  I thought about the pencil marks showing my children's height at various stages of their lives; the Christmas parties over the years; the typesetting room from my days as a young bride that morphed into part of our photo studio -  all of the reminders of not only my work life, but my whole life - suddenly gone as if they'd never been there at all.  Part of me was within those walls that had seen so much, heard so much, felt so much.

Just as I sent my children off to college and into the world, filled with excitement and hope for whatever the future held, so I knew the chapters of my life that had played out within those walls
had ended.  I hope that those beautifully remodeled walls will remember us and that whatever bright things the future holds for those that now work and live there, the laughter, tears and lessons learned by those of us that came before will become entwined with the joy of tomorrow's possibilities.