Heirlooms

Since earlier this spring, I've been devoting some time to emptying a house--a task that is tiring, emotional, and even rewarding at times. It needs to be done. I'm afraid that while I haven't wanted to be a pack rat, single parenting and working at jobs outside my home left me little time for doing anything beyond what absolutely needed to be done, so doll houses, train sets, Christmas ornaments, outgrown clothes, books, and ever so many other things seemed to accumulate in the basement of what we now fondly refer to as the Coleman house.

As I sort through the stuff of four people's lives, deciding what is important enough to keep and what can be discarded, I find myself thinking about an old Amy Grant song from her first Christmas CD (one of my favorite Christmas CDs):

Up in the attic (for me--down in the basement)
Down on my knees
Lifetimes of boxes
Timeless to me
Letters and photographs
Yellowed with years
Some bringing laughter
Some bringing tears

Time never changes
The memories, the faces
Of loved ones, who bring to me
All that I come from
And all that I live for
And all that I'm going to be
My precious family
Is more than an heirloom to me

These lyrics sum up the experience well. I've found many letters and cards from people that I haven't thought about in years; sometimes I have to reach way back in my memory to remember who they were, what they looked like, and why they sent a card or letter. Cards and notes written in my sister's and grandma's hand bring quick tears and a realization that no matter how many years pass, I still miss them terribly. I even found a note I had typed to my best friend, Julie, when I was in typing class in high school; she had sent it back to me in a letter at some point.

And then, just last week, I found a box full of high school memorabilia--pictures, newspaper clippings, judges' sheets from music competitions, and even the certification that I passed driver's training. But perhaps this picture represents the biggest high school memory of all--my starring role my senior year in the Wizard of Oz.

People in small towns like Wauseon, Ohio, where I grew up, get pretty excited about local high school sports events, choir and band concerts, and the annual musicals. A person rising to the spotlight in one of those venues quickly gets an inflated sense of her own importance when everyone in town recognizes that she, Ted Walborn's daughter, is Dorothy and her picture appears with the rest of the cast on the front page of the local paper.

But there's always something to bring even small-town celebs back to earth. A couple of days before opening night, the cast gave a practice performance for the elementary school students. I woke up that morning feeling kind of like the Wicked Witch of the West after Dorothy threw water on her or the Tin Man before he was oiled--you get the idea--a combination of late nights, not eating well, and nerves, most likely. When the curtain opened to reveal Dorothy's house relocated in Oz, Dorothy didn't appear. She was in the bathroom, backstage, throwing up. It was not a shining moment.

The good news is that I went home, went to bed, rested, and recovered for opening night. If I hadn't already been receiving enough attention, this bout with sickness put it over the top. I got more well wishes and bouquets than most small-town high school lead actresses ever get. My fame was probably extended an extra five minutes because of the sympathy factor. It was quite an experience, quite a time--my twenty minutes of small-town fame.

And as I place this event in the context of my life, I say, with Dorothy, "People come and go so quickly here!"