The Thumpa-Thump my Heart Makes over the Clickety-Clack

I don't know about you, but I think estate sales are a little creepy. There's something so sad and forlorn about a house that's no longer occupied, and just the bare bones of a lifetime are left, piled up on tables and marked with orange price tags. Whenever I'm at one, I can't help but wonder what my estate sale would be like. Would people be haggling over the price of my chipped dishes? How much would they pay for my "If I Were a Rich Man" music box, with Reb Tevye's jaunty arm raised mid-snap? Would they notice that poor Tevye's wrist had been cracked years ago, and meticulously re-glued?

At such a sale this week, I wasn't seeing much that interested me. I passed by the collection of porcelain faced dolls and shot glasses from touristy American cities. But in the basement, I saw something that made by heart go thumpa-thump:

A Royal typewriter.

My husband had to call my name a couple times before I came out of my trance. It was just like the typewriter my father used, and memories began flooding back. Something so satisfying about that fat clack clack clack that signified that Dad was working, or typing up a letter. And the memory of him taking me on his knee to show me how to give each key a sharp attack, not too hard to make an imprint into the paper, but not too soft so that the ink wouldn't transfer from the ribbon. I remember how he showed me how to replace the ribbon, to gently thread it through the inner workings of the magical machine, and your words would come out thick and black and meaningful. And when you ran out of room, but had just a few more letters, there was that lovely margin release button, that extended your line just a few more spaces.

I wonder if we all have that thing, that special memory or experience that we can go back to and revisit from time to time. And when we take it off the dusty shelf of our memory, we can say, "Oh, so that's why ..." Because without realizing it, I guess a typewriter is that thing I revisit from time to time. Somewhere early on I began my love affair with words, and the idea of sharing words with others. When I think of my Dad, who is a retired minister, I often couple my early memories of him with the sound of a clacking typewriter and the ding at the end of each line. I loved the words that he wrote, and the way he used his words to share good news and to make people feel happy and hopeful again.

Before him, my grandfather sat at his old black typewriter. He had written so many words that the "a" key had fallen off, rendered useless. The letters he would write us would be missing the a's, or else he would write them in by hand.

My first typewriter was a cute little blue one that came in its own carrying case. I loved being able to carry it around, and I'd type up stories and lists and letters. It was so modern and lightweight compared to my Dad's Royal, and I loved it because it was mine. I was probably in grade school, and it seemed like such a grown-up thing to own. Later on I bought myself an electric typewriter, but I never loved it the way I loved my little blue one.

I would never go back to using a typewriter now—I love my Macbook almost as much as my own children—but I'm so glad I have the memory of it. My kids don't even know what a typewriter is. It is a foreign concept to them, just like a Victrola is to me. I will tell them about my typewriter, but they will never love it as much as I do. They won't get that feeling in the pit of their stomach when they see an old typewriter sitting in someone's dusty basement.

But I hope for their sake, that they have that something that evokes happy memories. That something that sort of serves as a building block for who they are. For me, it is a typewriter. What is it for you?

Without a Mate

Funny how I was drawn to this sad, forlorn pink sock, lying in the grass in the middle of the park. I took my children to the playground because it was a sunny Saturday, and spring is so close you could reach out and touch it. And as I rounded up the kids and herded them towards the minivan, there it was, this lonely pink sock, looking terribly out of place on top of the crunchy dead grass and the drab brown leaves still left over from last fall.

One lonely pink sock.

I think I feel a little bit like this pink sock today, because I, too, am without my mate. My husband is out of town on business (this sounds funny to me, because he's not a business man, and he's barely out of town—a mere 17 miles away—but I digress). And I miss my husband when he's gone. And even though it was a great day in the sunshine with the kids, I couldn't help think to myself, He should be here. He should see our daughter trying the big slide, and see our boys wrestle rough-and-tumble in the wood chips, their giggles being carried on the breeze.

So I guess when I saw this pink sock lying there, I felt bad for it. Because it hadn't lived its full life yet. Unlike some of my kids' socks, this one had no holes and no gray, pilled surface on the bottom, and yet there it was, cast away completely forgotten and alone. Because who would want one pink sock? Even if it was the prettiest, brand new pink sock, who needs just one?

So, like I tend to do, I conjured in my mind the story of the lonely pink sock. I couldn't just let it lie there without a story, without some explanation of how it got to this place next to the weeping willow tree. I imagined a little girl with blond fly-away curls who was so excited at the first warm day of spring that she took off her shoes, then her socks, and dug her little pink toes into the cool earth and shivered and laughed because of the chill and the sheer pleasure of feeling skin against nature. And then her mother called to her, Time to go home! and then, seeing her barefoot, scolded, It's too chilly to be barefoot! Put your shoes on this instant! And in the literal sense that children hear their parents' commands, she quickly stepped back into her shoes, without first putting her two pretty socks on. Then, as an afterthought, she picked up her socks off the ground, first one, then the other, and ran to catch up with her mother. But in her rush, one of her socks slipped out of her pudgy fingers. And because one sock is so lightweight, so inconsequential and insignificant, she did not notice and continued running towards home.

And there it lay, and lays there still: a little bit crumpled but as bright at bubble gum, on the prickly grass in the intense sunlight.

RSVPing for the Rest Home

I don't think I realized what bad of shape I was in until last weekend, when we visited a nursing home. My husband was there to provide some music for the residents, so I tagged along and brought two of the kids. It's a lot of fun to talk to the residents of a place like this, mostly because they are usually so visibly pleased to have a visitor. And their eyes light up especially at the sight of children. And when their eyes light up, I like to look in their faces, and imagine them as children themselves. Without the wrinkles and the brittle bones. Before the gray hair.

Surprisingly, it's often not hard at all to imagine them as younger people, who had the same worries and fears and joys that I have now. That story of their life is still on their faces, still at the surface.

All my life, I called these places "nursing homes." My husband calls them "Rest Homes." Where did these names come from?

While we were at the nursing home, my son took this photo of the fireplace. I like it when my kids take photographs. It's a rare opportunity to see the world as they see it.

I've found myself actually daydreaming about the rest home. It was lovely there; there was an open area off the lobby where this roaring fire was the centerpiece. There were overstuffed couches in tasteful decor that looked so inviting with their plump pillows. The residents moved slowly around me. They even nodded slowly, and their smiles were real, and they didn't look hurried or worried. I didn't see a single pile of laundry anywhere, and there were no toys scattered all over the floor.

I could get used to this.

The moniker "Rest Home" appeals to me. I have been hell on wheels these last few weeks. I am at the end of my collective rope. I can't take any more of this winter. The cold is getting dangerously close to freezing my soul. My duties as a wife and mother are piling up around me. I wonder when this rat race of my life will ever slow down to a manageable pace.

I indulged my secret to another Mommy friend over the phone this morning. "I'm kind of thinking," I said hesitantly, "I don't know … like I'd like to check into the rest home."

I closed my eyes and waited for her to mock me. To tell me I was crazy.

"You know," she said, after some thoughtful consideration, "that wouldn't be so bad. I mean, as long as we'd have half our marbles ..."

So there's my crazy confession. Don't write to scold me. Don't tell me I should be grateful for my crazy life, my non-stop family. I know. I love them. They are fun, and a true blessing.

But face it: a Caribbean vacation with fruity drinks and sun is not in my budget, and therefore, not in my future. Right now, just give me this. When the kids have worn me out, and have etched laugh lines into my face and robbed my hair of its color, I know there's a place with a comfy couch and a fireplace just waiting for me.

Sign me up.