20. TOKENS

This morning, as I was hanging my pajamas on the hook in my closet, and at the same time pondering what I would focus my writing on today, I noticed this little pineapple shaped metal hook that hangs next to the washing machine in my closet. Every time I see it I think of my friend, Teri Brostrom Ross. Teri has known me a lot of years, and that simple hook makes my heart feel sealed to hers because it reminds me of her. She knew I liked the symbol of the pineapple as a representation of warmth and hospitality. We had a pineapple engraved on the glass in our entry door when we lived across the street from Teri. I  named my company Pineapple Enterprises. Not a lot of people know that about me these days. But Teri does. Or did. And when we built this new house 26 years ago she gave me this little housewarming gift of a pineapple hook. This hook, which I see multiple times a day, keeps Teri on my mind and in my heart.

I decided to take two minutes and travel around my house with my camera, snapping photos of other tokens that remind me of people, places or events. Here are two minutes of treasures.

Dave spent a good bit of time in St Croix Virgin Islands, working on a case for a client in Australia. He came home from one of his trips, when our kids were young, and gave each of them one of these colorful carved animal figures. Only Kate and Annie were probably young enough to fully appreciate and delight in them. I keep them on a shelf in the closet, in front of Dave's old Mackinac Island ball cap, because they remind me of a time when there were four kids making this house noisy and crazy and joyful. They remind me of the time in our lives when Dave was gone a lot, working on important cases. They remind me that while he was gone, he did think of us, and that he thought outside his instinctively focused "work box" and found these treasures for his kids. Nowadays they also remind me of our grandkids, who have found them on that shelf, just at their eye level, and claimed them as their own.

This medal, tucked in my jewelry box, reminds me that Dave was an honored and respected mayor of this city we call home. He was beloved by the police and fire departments for his dedication to their welfare, which in turn benefitted our citizens. He approved the first ladder truck, and the building of the new fire and police stations. He championed them when many citizens did not understand the dynamics of growth in a small town turning not-so-small. He laid the foundation of big things that happened after his watch, so people clapped and cheered for whomever was in office, not knowing what labors went into negotiations and studies and procedures that lay under splashy things. I know this. And he knows this. And he does not need people to clap for him like I think I do. But this little medal, tucked privately in a box, reminds me that he does things for the right and noble reasons, and I'm so proud of him.

In the same jewelry box is this antique metal cross necklace. It belonged to my mother, and is quite valuable. The year my mother died I almost didn't  do my annual Christmas concert. We were still grieving, and I was afraid I would cry through it. But I decided to do it anyway. The night of the first performance, before I left home, my sisters presented me with Mom's cross. I wore it throughout the performance, each night. This year I wore it as well. It's not stypical for a Latter-day Saint girl to wear a cross necklace. But my mom taught us to not get sucked into being typical. If who we are fits into the typical mold, well ok. But if not, no apologies.

This little nook in our family room might strike someone as a shrine. It's not. It's a reminder to me of our Catholic heritage in this house, and the people we love whose faith forms a foundation for our faith. The cross belonged to Dave's dad, and the rosary beads were his mother's. The Jesus belongs to all of us.

When we were building this house, twenty six or seven years ago, I was in a phase of acquisition. My Saturday mornings were devoted to garage sales. I had a homing device for Garage Sales that I had to pray away. (Praise be to God, that addiction has dissipated). This light fixture was one of my garage sale finds. There was a perfect little wall space for it right outside our bedroom. It has burned, with its warm yellow glow, day and night for 26 years. It reminds me of a time in my life that is part of me, but does not wholly own or define me.

One of my favorite places to visit is Plymouth Plantation. We try to go there whenever we visit Boston. I love it because it is the perfect place for grown up's to pretend, on a grown up level. This is a barometer made of handblown glass and forged iron. I squeeze colored water into it with a medical syringe every couple years. It really works. For instance, I can see some sort of weather change is headed our way because the water is almost to the top of the neck. When I look at my barometer I am instantly on the unpaved path of the Pilgrims, smelling the woodsmoke rising from the thatched roofs of their small houses lined up there on the hillside, mixed with the faint undertones of salty seawater and fresh baking bread in their outdoor community oven. I feel the crispness of autumn in New England and I pretend that I am far, far, far from my native land, driven across the seas by my need for religious freedom.

My son, John, probably doesn't know this, but I have two small sculptures in our house that are there just because they remind me of him. One is a replica of the Pieta' by Michelangelo. There was a time when this piece moved me to tears regularly. I kept it sitting on my long black table in the family room. I felt the love and longing of the mother Mary at the loss of her beloved son. I had empathy with the feeling of loss, when my boy grew up,( as he was supposed to) and moved on, (as he was supposed to.) Still, it is a grief all mothers have to work through. This little John the Baptist was purchased at a flea market int Italy. I bought it to remind myself that John has his own calling in life. I may have been part of getting him here, and keeping him alive for a while, and perhaps helping him see life in a certain way. But he has his path to walk and his purpose to fulfill without me, and that's a good thing. This little figure reminds me of that. I love him, but he is not mine to keep.

This little collection of sheep remind me of my mom, of myself, and my savior. I've collected sheep a long time. My mom and I started it together, years ago. Mine come from all over. I set them together, all their varying colors, shapes and sizes, facing the Good Shepherd. At Christmastime I channel my friend Sally Jo and gather them around the manger, one sheep for each of my children and grandchildren. I have, now, one of Sally Jo's sheep on my mantle next to a 150 year old Santon of St Joseph that I purchased at a flea Market in New York about a decade ago.

Any of my children will tell you they have memories of the candy chicken at Gram's house. My grandchildren will tell you the same of the white chickens at my house. Tradition. When we moved back east, to Western PA in 1963, my mom set about discovering all the treasures around her. One was the Westmoreland Glass Factory, where they made milk glass. She purchased, one piece at a time as she could afford it, milk glass place settings for her dining room table. Accessories were part of the fun. One of them was the milk glass chicken she kept on her sideboard. In it she kept little candies. I think Runts were the favorites of my kids. especially the banana shaped ones. Libby still keeps Gram's chicken filled at her house. I keep mine filled at mine. Before we moved to Utah, in 1982, Mom and I visited the Westmoreland Glass Factory outlet and purchased place settings for my own table. The factory was closing and we knew if we wanted our grapevine pattern we'd better get it then. These chickens speak of Gram, treasured memories of our time together, memories of my children's hands on her chickens, and my grandkids hands on my chickens.

Dave's sister Jill sent these carved wood angels to us years ago for Christmas. I love them. I think of her every time I see them. I love having this reminder of her because she lives thousands of miles away in Rhode Island.

This small bouquet of dried roses hangs from a candle holder on my wall. I light the candle when the power goes out. The roses were gathered from the many bouquets on my mother's grave. They were tiny, bright and fragrant then. But they are still beautiful to me. I like to think of my mom when I walk by them. I like to think that she fits perfectly under the source of light.

I loved the great creative adventure of building this house. We did all sorts of meaningfull stuff no one but us would know about. My kids initials are scratched in the mortar in the rock fireplace. Those rocks were gathered from the creekbed behind our old house. The mantle in the basement is an old beam from the fallen barn on the old Leonard property. The sunstone in the brickwork out front represents that Christ is the cornerstone of this house. All sorts of meaningful stuff. We will likely be remodeling the kitchen in the next few years. It makes me feel melencholy, because I will lose some of these secret treasures. But it's dated, and time for a change, I know that. I decided to hand fire tiles for this kitchen, when we were designing. I cut out sponges in the shape of apples and invited family and close friends to make apple tiles for the new kitchen. We had them fired and installed. I love looking at the apples around my kitchen backsplash and seeing the initials of people I love painted beside each apple. Some of these folks have moved up to heaven now. I like remembering them sitting at the kitchen table in the old house, their hands dipping sponges and arranging paint on blank tiles, then their paintbrushes creating little corkscrew swirls to personalize each one. 

My friends Marsha and Rob gave me this awesome guitar shaped cutting board for a birthday years ago. I hung it on the cupboard next to the kitchen window. I stand at the sink daily and think of them when I see it. I think of them, and every time I pray for them. Marsha survived Pancreatic Cancer. It's been at least 17 years now. She is struggling to hang on to her body these days, and so I pray. But as much as I pray for her health, I pray gratitude for so many delightful memories with her. So many.

Every summer, when we weave our way across the continent and end up at our cottage in Michigan, I take at least one afternoon and visit my favorite antiquing haunts. Since I am basically out of the acquisition mode these days, I don't very often purchase anymore. Years back tho, I found these two little hand carved figures in Uncle Winnies Antiques Shop and snatched them up. I was just coming to terms with the fact that Dave and I were on the cusp of becoming an old couple. I have long been charmed by old couples. I didn't have grandparents, or great grandparents as a child, so much of what charms me is in the pretend world. I keep this little pair on the etergere in my entry hall to remind me that I am part of a set, like salt and pepper shakers. I know one day the set will get broken up for a while, but the fact that its only "a while" makes my heart happy.

There's a little old tomato sauce can covered in felt, polyester lace, glitter and a pipe cleaner candy cane sitting on the window sill in my bathroom. It's doesn't really go there. But I cannot remove it because it reminds me of my Kate and I need to think of her through these tokens because she lives far away in New York. Kate made this in Kindergarten. I keep money in it. Spare change. How blessed are we to have a life that includes spare change? I like to lift this can to see her little-girl handwriting, from a time when she called herself Katie. I made a can like this when I was in First Grade. It had blue felt, with a felt fish on the front. My mom kept it many, many years. It made me feel important. I hope Kate knows how important she is to me.

I have about ten additional photos from my two minute token blitz. But two minutes of photos is taking me hours to write about, so I'll leave with one last token from my long black table.

This Sacrament set has become part of our weekly routine. It was created with love during this pandemic. I drilled holes in the wood. Sanded, painted, glued and glossed it. I filled the holes with vintage sacrament cups from the 1950's. The bread plate was made by Ben Behunin, a potter friend. I purchased the miniature carafe from the restaurant supply shop in SLC. We typed, printed and laminated tiny Sacrament Prayer cards that sit under the tray. We use this set every Sunday during the pandemic, when we prepare, bless and partake in our own home. I play Love One Another on my guitar as we sing during the breaking of the bread. We use that song because it is so short, but powerful. Breaking 1/4 piece of bread for our small gathering goes pretty quick. I have loved the time when this sacred ordinance has been performed within our own walls. Our home becomes sanctified and holy, not only by the performance of this ordinance, but by the love that is evidenced here.

Tokens abound in our space. They are tokens because of what they represent and who they remind us of. Otherwise, it's just stuff.