Our elderly neighbors up the road have both passed now and the family is having a sale of household stuff and old tools. The everyday stuff of their lives is displayed with price tags on them.
I knew my neighbors in passing, literally, because I walked the road with my dog for a few years. The man would be puttering in his garage which was way too close to the road, but it was easy for us to say 'hello' and speak for a few minutes before my dog got impatient to move on. One day the neighborhood cows got out and were walking on the road with me. I was relieved to see my older friend out by his garage that morning. I was a bit afraid of those cows because they were young bulls-guess I shouldn't call them cows, huh? Anyway, my friend came to my rescue and shooed them away.
I wish now I had lots more stories to tell about my neighbors up the road. Isn't that what our lives are made of? Minute details, likes and dislikes, personality traits, personal memories and private stories. A life is woven by all of those threads.
For instance, my mom told me when she was three years old, she liked to put stones in her shoes and walk in them that way. Her parents took her to a foot doctor to see if something was wrong. That story is a tiny thread, a memory that is now part of my story.
It was sad for me to walk through my neighbor's house and see it empty of them, but full of the stuff of their lives. Scattered and piled. Stories hidden now because they are gone.
So I bought and old Lux kitchen timer and some antique crates. I don't really have room or a purpose for those crates but I had to have them. The timer reminds me of my Grandma's old one-it was a Lux too, but a different style. A thread-a connection-now more than ever I feel I need connections. I need something to make sense in a mad world.
Politics, hoax theories, fear of a disease gone rabid, divisions among friends and family because of differing ideas about the virus-it's too much to process and make any sense of. I needed those crates and that timer.
My good friends are at rest. I have something she touched when she baked and cooked those long years in that kitchen. I have my friend's crates.
And I have a thread of their lives woven into my own.