All my upstairs rooms are pretty much neglected. We live in the three rooms-and-a-bath downstairs. When the grandchildren visit, they usually sleep on the hida-bed or the floor. In winter, there's no heat upstairs. On summer nights, it's the hottest place in the house. But there's one room that's especially become a wasteland. Cliff threatened once to back the pickup up near the house and start pitching stuff out the window of my "junkroom". One of our more serious fusses in recent years was over that mess in my "junkroom".
I go up there sometimes with good intentions, thinking I'll put everything neatly into boxes and containers. But to do that, I have to look at everything. And I can't seem to get past one or two photo albums. At this season of the year, it doesn't take much to evoke memories, so I'll find a treasure-trove of photos up there and bring them down so I can scan the cream of the crop. By the time I've done this, I've spent two hours reminscing, and am completely out of the mood of bringing order to my junk room.
That's my mom and dad having breakfast in 1960. Daddy had canned biscuits and jelly every morning of his life... his preference. Notice the lack of shoes, a tradition which I have faithfully carried on. If I'd had a digital camera back then, there'd be lots of pictures like this. It seemed as though most old folks liked posed pictures, everyone standing orderly and even, with fake smiles on their faces. I liked snapshots of everyday life. I received a Kodak Brownie camera of my own one Christmas and managed to take some real-life pictures like this one.
I like this one of Grandma because I so loved going to her house. I'd visit her for a week every summer. I can close my eyes right now and imagine walking in that door, through the porch where her African violets thrived, and on into the kitchen, which smelled vaguely of kerosene from the kitchen range, which ran on "coaloil". In my mind I can walk right over to the shelf to the left where she kept the Hi-Ho crackers, or to the right where a gallon jar held a never-ending supply of home-made sugar cookies.
Tis the season for memories.