So today, I taught my son the importance of legible handwriting by telling him about the time I got an A (and you didn't) on homework I copied from you.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Azaleas
I think of you at the most random times. Yesterday, we were leaving the house, and my daughter shouted "Look, Mommmy! The roses are blooming!"
We don't have roses. We have azaleas, because it's the south, and it's mandatory. I don't think I can identify a single house on my block that DOESN'T have azaleas.
As soon as she said roses, my mind provided me with a memory.
I'm walking in to the Performing Arts School. You're standing there, in the main entrance, with a long white box. In all the years that have passed since that moment, still no one else has ever given me such a perfect gift. (Of course, no one else has ever broken up with me by avoiding my calls since I turned 12 - so I guess it balances.) I remember the way you looked at me - hopeful. My heart was in my throat when I saw the box. I knew what it was right away. And I was overwhelmed. Overcome. Amazed.
"My favorite!" I shouted "AZALEAS!" I quoted Shakespeare. I subbed the word Azalea for the word Rose in all sorts of ways. (A habit which carried on long past you, by the way.) I carried that box around all day and I felt special. I protected it, I rode Public Transit with that box. At (school) rush hour. It took me around an hour and a half to get home and I cradled that box the entire way. I had put the card in my purse, so I could read it without exposing that glorious, perfect, gem.
I can't remember very many times in my life that I felt that special. And I felt that way each and every time you turned up with one of those long white boxes with the fancy gold script from that famous florist. (I can't remember now if it was Chopin's or Sheinuk's - I'm even more impressed that I spelled that right prior to googling). I flattened the boxes, and kept them stored on the top shelf of my closet. I kept the cards with your terrible illegible handwriting in a separate keepsake box with other little mementos. (This method of storing keepsakes is how I store the kids' keepsakes. I have a box for each of them, and I put stuff in it, sometimes with a note, sometimes not.)
I sincerely hope that my kids get to make someone special feel that way.
We don't have roses. We have azaleas, because it's the south, and it's mandatory. I don't think I can identify a single house on my block that DOESN'T have azaleas.
As soon as she said roses, my mind provided me with a memory.
I'm walking in to the Performing Arts School. You're standing there, in the main entrance, with a long white box. In all the years that have passed since that moment, still no one else has ever given me such a perfect gift. (Of course, no one else has ever broken up with me by avoiding my calls since I turned 12 - so I guess it balances.) I remember the way you looked at me - hopeful. My heart was in my throat when I saw the box. I knew what it was right away. And I was overwhelmed. Overcome. Amazed.
"My favorite!" I shouted "AZALEAS!" I quoted Shakespeare. I subbed the word Azalea for the word Rose in all sorts of ways. (A habit which carried on long past you, by the way.) I carried that box around all day and I felt special. I protected it, I rode Public Transit with that box. At (school) rush hour. It took me around an hour and a half to get home and I cradled that box the entire way. I had put the card in my purse, so I could read it without exposing that glorious, perfect, gem.
I can't remember very many times in my life that I felt that special. And I felt that way each and every time you turned up with one of those long white boxes with the fancy gold script from that famous florist. (I can't remember now if it was Chopin's or Sheinuk's - I'm even more impressed that I spelled that right prior to googling). I flattened the boxes, and kept them stored on the top shelf of my closet. I kept the cards with your terrible illegible handwriting in a separate keepsake box with other little mementos. (This method of storing keepsakes is how I store the kids' keepsakes. I have a box for each of them, and I put stuff in it, sometimes with a note, sometimes not.)
I sincerely hope that my kids get to make someone special feel that way.
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