A Love Letter on Gardening

Tucked into the recesses of my closet sit two paper handled gift bags. They hold the cards and letters written to me, by my mother, over the course of my grown up life. Many of the cards look like they were chosen for a child, with their innocent images and envelopes smothered with stickers, but they were written for me...the adult little girl... who never stopped wanting or needing the words of  love, encouragement, and reassurance offered by a caring, insightful mother.

 

When I was in my late twenties, reeling from a divorce that had left me broken hearted and disillusioned, my mother wrote "Contentment Gardening & Happiness Butterflies." It was the first and only time one of her letters came with a title...instead of a greeting. Handwritten and over ten pages in length, it was a labor of love and a true testament to the bond we shared. It redirected my outlook, all those years ago, and it continues to serve as a source of inspiration... to this day.

 

On Mother's Day...in honor of my mom (Mickey) as well as moms everywhere and the transformative role they play in our lives...I'd like to share parts of this heartfelt letter.

 

 

 Contentment Gardening & Happiness Butterflies

 

  "Butterfly is a good metaphor for happiness, because if you chase happiness too hard, it eludes you and if you ever try and hold on to it, you destroy it. The high of happiness is indeed like a butterfly - something beautiful and delightful to behold - something you always remember. Everyone chases the happiness butterflies but all this futile chasing wears people out - makes some disillusioned and frustrates others - because they are trying to capture something that can't be captured.

 

But there is a way to glimpse and enjoy the butterflies. (I didn't say... "all of the time" or "catch" or "put in a bottle." ) The trick is to make a garden of contentment to lure the butterflies in. You see you can control your garden of contentment to a much greater degree than you can control the butterflies of happiness. Oh sure, sometimes you get flooded out and there are weeds of character to be gotten rid of and there are garden pests to spray for. However, if you can decide what you want in your garden and you work and think and study - you can have a pretty nice garden for yourself. You've learned a lot about gardening already. Your Daddy and I taught you a lot about gardening when you were little. We were good gardeners and there were lots of real butterflies that came to our garden. Because you were  young, you probably thought they belonged to you and you would just naturally always have a good supply.

 

As you grew, things continued to bloom in your garden and the happiness butterflies flitted round and round. The day D came into your life - with him came the most beautiful butterflies in all the world. They were the first love butterflies - the butterflies of sheer delight. They seem hearty at first but they need great tending and they often don't live long. D wasn't much for gardening but when your Daddy wasn't there, any longer, to help us garden - D pitched in and gave us a hand. We gardened together but we should have noticed the butterflies were fewer and fewer. Some never came back after your Daddy passed away and I think you panicked and started to try and catch the butterflies. And, of course, the harder you tried, the more you drove them out of your garden. When D left,  your garden of contentment turned brown overnight. The climate was so bad. The winds of depression blew out any odd butterfly that might have been in the area and the rains of tears beat on the character flowers. Worse than the destruction was a terrible weed that ran like a choking ground cover over everything. It was the self doubt you felt and the blame you placed on yourself.

 

You'd never really gardened alone before - but you decided to try it. And though it was a lot of work and growing conditions still weren't good - you got your garden started again. And your garden is doing fine. The intelligence and character flowers are especially healthy. You always worked hard to cultivate them. And as a result - you've always enjoyed the happiness butterflies of your teaching job. You need to sow a few seeds of thrift and there's a few cut worms of self-pity that you need to spray for. But on the whole things are flourishing. 

 

Mainly, you need two things. The first is patience. You tend to want everything to grow and bloom overnight. And if it doesn't, you pull everything up and start over. Well, that isn't necessary. Try pinching off and pruning back. And wait...wait just a little longer. Growing and flowering takes time. And you need to have faith. Faith in yourself. Look at your successful crops - not at your failures. And remember that while some of the blame for crop failure lies with the gardener - not all does. There are things that you can't control. Have faith in the miracle of the growing season. As bad as the weather gets and as dark as the night is - you'll always have one more growing season...one more chance... as long as you'll take it.

 

So, continue being a determined gardener and one day, when you're sitting in your garden just appreciating all that surrounds you - the butterflies will come and in a goodly number. And no one will be happier for you, than me, because ... you see, the happiness butterflies in my garden are definitely because of you.

 

I love you,

Momie"

 

                                                                                       

 

                                                                                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

Jane Goodall and Me

When my friend, Kim, announced that she and her husband were heading to the San Diego Zoo, as part of a get-a-way, and offered to take photographs of animals that could be turned into card sets for Mickeysjoy, the shop, I was thrilled. Her husband is a great photographer and Kim and I had created a little section just for cards created from photographs taken during our travels. We entitled it "The Viajeros Collection." (Viajeros means the traveler, in Spanish.) I requested that she not forget to include some monkeys, in the photos. The thoughts of all of those animals and specifically the monkeys brought childhood memories flooding back....

National Geographic's monthly arrival to our mailbox, when I was a child, was a time of both excitement and wonderment for me. My mother would always find time when we could look at the magazine together. I'd sit, knees tucked under me, in an effort to get as close to the action, as possible. After perusing the magazine for a subject that caught our attention, we would settle into the business of discovery. I could read, by this age, but the text could be challenging and I was too eager to just ingest the information so my mother read some and paraphrased more. We read about unfamiliar  places and the people who lived there, volcanoes and earthquakes, stars and planets. The topics seemed limitless and although I enjoyed learning about most things, my undeniably favorite topic was animals. I delighted in learning about all types of animals and the food that they ate, the unique ways they protected themselves, and the charming ways they cared for their young. Regardless of the species, I was struck by the fact that each seemed to have so much in common with us...as humans.

In August of 1963, the National Geographic Magazine ran an article on Jane Goodall.  I was totally engaged in this article about a young, female anthropologist, living and working in, what was then Tanganyika, among the chimpanzees, recording their behaviors and eventually interacting with them. She, unconventionally, gave the animals in her study, names...instead of numbers...and recorded observations of behaviors that she insisted were evidence of the bonds that existed between chimpanzee family members. When we read about her personal encounters, with the chimpanzees, I was enthralled. These stories fueled a love of animals I had known all of my life, confirmed a suspicion about connections we share with all living things, and added a dimension of knowledge and understanding that changed a part of me, forever.

Copied from Reason For Hope by Jane Goodall

In eighth grade, I took a biology class taught by a young woman obviously captivated by the subject she taught, She was young, enthusiastic, and lectured with a black and white rat perched on her shoulder. She fed my love and fascination of all living things and I was excited to put some of what I knew about Miss Goodall's research into our end-of-the-year report.

School projects, that became a family affair, were always among my favorites. This report incorporated footnotes so my mother provided some assistance in this area. She was typically my proofreader, as well.  My father always had wonderful ideas for the visual aide part of any project but the artwork had to be mine. In fact, he always seemed reluctant to help me with any part of an artwork project. I would be much older before I would understand that he never wanted me to stop believing in my own artistic abilities. I got lucky with this project...the report cover was ungraded and I wore him down with my pleading.

I was always a good student but not a straight A kid.

There was definitely a life lesson here.

Do what you love... you're bound to succeed.

                                  
My respect for Miss Goodall, as well as my fascination with her work, endured beyond my youth. I continued to read about her research with chimpanzees and purchased several of the books she wrote. I felt we were such kindred spirits that I was anxious to learn more about her as a person. Although Miss Goodall and I have led significantly different adult lives, our childhoods had many parallels. Undoubtedly, the most significant similarity was that we were both raised in a home where love and respect for living things was encouraged from our earliest days. It seems it was our destiny to have this undeniable connection to the animal world and a certain sense of responsibility for its protection.

 

 

I hope you have a chance to check out the amazing photographed animal note cards in our shop. It's impossible to look at those facial expressions and not recognize we all share commonalities. For me...it's impossible to look at them and not feel appreciation for all those childhood experiences that cause me to look at animals with such awe.

 



Write a Letter...It's Your Chance to Touch the Future

One of my most treasured keepsakes is a letter that  my Grandmother received from her brother, in 1942, while he was serving in the United States Army. It's just a short, single-sided note commenting on the weather in Virginia and how he feared his little hometown wouldn't be the same when he returned. But that brief note, with a little background on the writer's life, gives me a connection with him I might have otherwise missed.
 

 

 

Sadly, I never met my Grandmother Mary (my mother's mother) or her brother (my mother's Uncle Grant) as they both had passed away before I was born. Growing up, I heard many stories about my Grandmother, saw her pictures, and evidenced a bit of  her creativity in the numerous embroidered tea-towels and pillow cases around our home. Over the years, I felt like I had come to know quite a bit about this happy, loving woman who delighted in her family, and like me, her elementary school students.

"Uncle Grant" was my mother's favorite uncle and she had fond stories of  their times together when she was a child. I still have a small bookcase that he built for her when she was a child...a creation undoubtedly motivated by more than his love of wood working. But the stories of Uncle Grant were typically tinged with a bit of sadness. My mother had always said the Uncle Grant was never really the same after the war. I'm sure no one is really the same after a war but the fact that he became somewhat defined by that has always haunted me.





Now, as I hold his letter in my hands, looking at his neatly penciled sentences, I can't help but wonder if his concerns about his hometown being different upon his return weren't reflections of his own personal changes. Was he a new or seasoned soldier, at this point? I don't even know. All I really know is that I am holding a letter that was personal correspondence between two people who were family. Two people who had their own personal struggles...as we all do. Two people who never had a chance to love me, but because of stories and pictures, I have loved for the majority of my life. If only they would have known that their memory, their legacy, would live on for decades to come - celebrated by a girl they never knew.





Our lives are short and, I suspicion, too often end with words unsaid. I know the handwritten letter will never replace the efficiency of the technological e-mail or text. It shouldn't. But maybe it's time for the hand-written letter to be revived, not simply as a way to say "hello" but as a way to share a bit of ourselves for those who will go ahead of us.  It might be our children or a young friend or perhaps someone we don't even yet know who will one day hope to better understand a person they have come to love.

Are You Still Dreaming?

I recently got a call from a good friend concerned about her baby sister. The "baby" sister is a 42 year old mother with one grown son in college and another soon to be a senior in high school. She appears to be suffering with some depression. My friend was just looking for an empathetic ear. I wouldn't have had any advice anyway but I could hear my mother's voice and a much earlier discussion about mid-life crisis, in my head, as I hung up the phone.


As an elementary school child, I was a slow starter in the mornings. It took repeated jostling to get me out of bed. I ate breakfast at a snail's pace and then proceeded to take forever getting dressed. A working mother's nightmare. But even my mother, who was a stay-at-home mom, decided early on her mornings could not start this way. Her solution was to have me take my bath and choose clothes, for the next school day, long before I was tucked into bed at night.  But this time soon became more than a solution to the early morning crazies. It became our private time, a beloved time for me, when I found answers to the endless questions and childhood worries that rambled around in my head. We talked about anything and everything  but specifically things that seemed inappropriate for a dinner table discussion.  It was during this time, when I was in second grade, that I admitted Susan's older brother told us how babies were conceived. She explained that this was a topic I needed to be a little bit older to completely understand but proceeded to tell me just enough to relieve my young mind. And it was also during one of these discussions that I asked what a mid-life crisis was - after my friend, Judy, told me her aunt was in the middle of one!

 Of course, I don't remember every word my mother used when she delivered her insights but you'd be surprised at just how many I can actually still hear in my head. My memory of the little bathroom, where most of our discussions began, has faded. But the vision of her, sitting on the edge of the tub tossing capfuls of bubble bath into the water ....has not.

"You know how much you look forward to being old enough to baby-sit?", my mother began, knowing full well that it was one of my young-life dreams.  She knew I loved little children and looked forward to the time when I could play with them and care for them like a little mom.

I'm much younger here, than I was in my story, but I can remember how grown-up I felt
having just a little responsibility for Jeffrey, a close family friend's young son. 

                                          
"When people are young, she continued, they dream about being old enough to do grown-up things. They dream about a time when they'll be old enough to drive a car, go on a date, or live on their own.  As they get a little older, many people begin to dream about getting accepted to a college and finding that perfect job. They dream about getting married, buying a house, and having children. They look forward to all the joyous times that accompany being a family."

" Many of those dreams come true. Jobs and careers are started and people get married and have children. And even if it doesn't happen exactly as people had planned and dreamed, they can be very happy. They are also very busy. It takes a lot of time to raise a family and care for a house, and go to work every day. In fact, they are so busy that sometimes they don't take time to think about the new things they have to look forward to in their lives. They sort of stop imagining and dreaming about the future."

"The days add up to months and the months add up to years and before they know it.....their children are all grown up and about ready to go and start their own lives.  All those dreams about having and raising children might have come true but they are coming to an end. Your children will always be your children but they won't always need you like they once did when they were little. This usually happens when adults are in the middle of their lives so they call it a mid-life crisis. It makes a lot of people very sad."


My mother's explanation was obviously a simplified explanation of a complicated topic but it was perfect for my young mind. I knew that if I ever met Judy's aunt (the woman supposedly having the mid-life crisis), I would feel compassion towards her instead of fear or suspicion. I also felt a bit more empowered to face an adult world that could look pretty scary at times.

Although many of my questions on life might have been answered "at the tub",  I know they were really learned and internalized as I watched my mother live her life.  Military life meant there was a new home, in a new location, every 3-5 years. I know it was difficult for her to leave her friends but it must have also been a challenge to create/recreate a warm familiar home environment, settle me into  new schools, and find ways to pursue her own personal interests. But you would have never known that by her attitude. She promised friends she would stay in touch ( it was mickey's joy!) and turned her energies to the excitement of living in a new place and the yet-to-be-discovered opportunities for travel. Whether it was a goal she shared with my dad, a personal dream, or just planning for the holidays, my mother always found something that she could look forward to. She was always planning and dreaming. It was simply how she lived her life.



 




 

"Just Pretend"

I have always claimed that my mother gave me my roots and my father....my wings. Consistently loving and supportive, my mother would never have discouraged me from doing or trying anything but she would have always been practical and honest about the cost or effort required. Spend a modicum of your time with your head in the clouds, she would have advised. My father, on the other hand, although every bit as honest, was more of a dreamer and  approached things from a slightly different angle. It was my parents' differences, as well as their similarities, that made our home such a wonderful place for me to learn and grow. On this Father's Day, I'm reminiscing about one of  his unique life lessons and remembering just how much love always strung between us.

My dad's retirement from the Air Force, and his subsequent job in Aerospace, led us, in the late 1960s, to sunny California. Finding a new home, acclimating to the amazing weather and our new civilian life was easy. But, for me, fitting in mid-year to a new junior high school, took a little more effort. One night, as we sat at the dining table, sharing our days, I burst out with the confession..."I wish I had a boyfriend."

 I've always wondered if my parents had some sort of a signal, between the two of them, communicating who was going to take the lead with a discussion that concerned me. Unfortunately, I never asked either one of them, but whatever the procedure, my father took the lead with this discussion. "How do you think your days would be different, if you had a boyfriend?" he asked.

Even though I was never going to be able to date at age twelve, my father must have decided that understanding why I thought my life would be improved, with a boyfriend, would help him comfort me. Or maybe he wanted me to better understand my own feelings. Whatever his motivations, he recognized I'd need to examine my school day...the only consistent place I had interactions with boys... to gain any insights.

I'd seen boys open lockers, for their girl friends, and carry their books, at school. I could open my locker and handle my own books. A boyfriend certainly wasn't a requirement to attend the after school dances held in the crepe-paper and balloon decorated cafeteria. I had seen couples, although  few in number, sitting by themselves at lunch. But, I loved those times, at the long lunch tables, where the girls all crammed together, to chat and giggle. I didn't think I wanted to trade that for a romantic couple's lunch. There was something that I longed for but it was hard to identify let alone put into words.

 My father continued to casually ask questions about my days. That's when I remembered one particular warm afternoon, when all of the girls from 4th period PE were headed to the baseball field. The boys, already suited up, were doing drills on the basketball courts. As we sprinted by, one of the boys yelled out the name of one of the girls, in our class. It was a simple acknowledgement...no embarrassing whistles or unsavory comments. She waved and flashed him a big smile as we continued on our trek towards the backstop. As we lined up to practice hitting balls, I remember someone reminding her that "he" would be watching.

And there it was...so simple and yet so complicated!  I really didn't want anyone watching me hit the ball...or more accurately attempting to hit the ball. I didn't want anyone taking me away from my friends at lunch. But there was something wonderful about knowing that someone was thinking about you. There was something magical about knowing you were special enough, to someone, that they were quite aware of your presence. In fact, they were looking for you. My father, being poignantly aware of how much I wanted to feel a part of my new school and my new classmates,  had led me to realize that, at this stage of my life,  it was truly a feeling that I longed for more than an actual boyfriend. Although, he never showed it, I'm sure he was greatly relieved.

After all that soul searching, what was my father's recommendation? "Just pretend that you have a boyfriend," he casually suggested. Was he kidding??  Did he have any idea what it would take to pull off a lie as big and involved as that one?  He proceeded to explain that I should not lie...I would not tell anyone else that I had a boyfriend. I would be pretending to myself.  I would try to imagine how it would feel, to me, inside my heart.  I wasn't exactly sure how I would do that but our discussion  made me think of a time, years earlier, when I was waiting to take my swimming test. Standing at the edge of the pool, feeling nervous and alone, it helped to know that my parents were sitting in those stands, thinking about me. I couldn't even see them and yet, I knew, in my heart that they were there...believing in me...loving me. It was truly that feeling that gave me the strength to dive into that water and complete my test.

Was he encouraging me to be delusional? I think it was more about learning to "fake it till you make it." Those parental lessons that continue to light our paths, despite the passing years, are more than  priceless memories. Isn't it every parent's dream to give their children lessons that serve them for a lifetime?  I barely remember pretending to have a boyfriend but I clearly remember pretending to have the confidence of a seasoned classroom teacher, as I stood at age 22, in front of my first audience of parents ready to share my plans for their child's second grade year. And more recently, as a beginning blogger, I pretended to already have readers that giggled or smiled at the stories of my childhood and my friendships that I posted. I so wanted to share those stories but it took that bit of pretending before I could take the plunge and push the publish button.

I was lucky to have a father who was so willing to be engaged  with every aspect of my young life. He was there when I was ready to learn how to ride a bike and drive a car and he remained equally as involved when my interests turned to boys and prom dresses. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't miss him and recognize the impact he had on my life simply  because he loved me so much.

 

When the Real Name of the Game is Love

 Chances are, if you ever received a wedding card from my mom, she would have added the personal message..."May you remain sweethearts forever!"  

My parents were sweethearts. Beyond the fact that they loved each other, they simply delighted in being together. Yes, they had their own individual interests and hobbies, but they never tired of each other's company. Simply put, they had the most fun when they were together. I'm sure it was that joy my mother wished for her newlywed friends.

 About a month ago, my husband said to me, "I miss your mom. It's that time of year when she would have been asking me to make her a March Madness Bracket." He was right. My mom loved  basketball...and football...and baseball. In fact, she loved most sports. But that wasn't always the case.

My father was athletic and played a variety of sports as a youth. As an adult, he loved following local sports teams. After retiring from the military and  moving to California, those interests intensified. Even though my dad still held a full-time job, my parents' outlook on life was more relaxed and it was easier to find time to attend local games and follow more sports on the television. Watching those games, on the television, was more fun for my dad if my mom was with him. He knew that  televised sports didn't really hold my mother's attention so he became determined to change that fact.

One of my mother's favorite hobbies was doing puzzles. She loved jigsaw puzzles, crossword puzzles, number and word puzzles. If it challenged her mind....she loved it. My father was well aware of that fact. So, one spring day, in the middle of baseball season, he brought home a baseball scoring card and taught my mother how to keep stats during the game.


She was hooked! And it wasn't long until she kept stats on all the sports they watched. If there wasn't an official scoring form, she made her own. My mother became the unlikely expert on RBIs, pass completions, and points scored. And for the rest of her life, scoring games, was one of my mother's favorite activities. Was it because she truly loved the process of watching the puzzle of the game unfold? Or was it the memory of all the days and nights she spent sharing the games with my dad?

 It has been said that a successful team is made up of unique individuals contributing different strengths towards a common goal. My parents were different in many ways but they were alike in so many more. And that common goal? To make the most of every moment that they had together. They were definitely a team and somewhere in the middle of championing one another's differences and making togetherness a priority, they became sweethearts forever.

The Tripod is Up....Let Thanksgiving Begin!

Thanksgiving morning always started early and with a bit of frenzy, at our house. I was allowed to sleep in but my mother actually set an alarm so she could get up and start the preparations. My father, usually a late-sleeper, was anxious to join my mom and get the day started. Thanksgiving was his favorite day of the year.

My mother would have completed some of the preparations earlier that week. The silver would be shined and wrapped in plastic so it wouldn't tarnish before the big day. The embroidered linen tablecloth would have been pressed but not yet on the table.  A simple centerpiece, with fresh flowers, fall leaves, and possibly a twig or two would be sitting in a bowl waiting for its debut. For my mother, centerpieces were no big deal. I typically take photos of the centerpieces I create. Not because they are amazing but because I'm never sure I'll ever be able to recreate them. My mother never recreated a centerpiece.

While my mother busied herself in the kitchen, my father gathered the movie camera, film, cables, and found the perfect location for the tripod.   He'd always request that we take a trial walk down the hall and into the dining room, a rehearsal of sorts, so he could be sure the tripod was at the perfect angle.

My mom and I would oblige, giggling as he pretended to take up the role of tyrannical movie director. Never mind that he would typically still be in his pajamas, we knew how much he loved Thanksgiving, his camera, and the two of us!  Then, once the turkey had been basted for the final time and the tripod was in place, it was time to change into our "finery", as my mother would say, and start the festivities.

Being a military family meant we spent most of our holidays away from extended family. People have often said, "Your parents went to all of that work, just for the three of you?"  But each holiday, each celebration was still a big deal because "we" were a big deal. My parents knew that family was more about love than numbers. For that....I'll always be thankful!

Happy Thanksgiving!!

 

 

 

Just Hand Over the Dishes and Nobody Gets Hurt

It's almost time to haul in those boxes with my much beloved Halloween dishes. In honor of that special occasion, I'm reprinting a July 2011 post originally written for a Word Press blog.


I need a Twelve-Step Program for my addiction to dishes. Yes, you read it correctly. I am obsessed with dishes. Not the commemorative type that people buy to remember special occasions or unique places. I can’t seem to own enough dinner plates, salad bowls, 16-piece dinnerware sets.

As my generation was growing up, it was readily accepted that blame for everything unpleasant about yourself be placed on your parents. As I see it, my mother really is to blame for my out-of-control dish fetish.

We were a little family, just the three of us, but that never stopped my mother from making a big deal about meals. Every night we ate dinner on an artfully set table complete with candles. She owned just one set of everyday dishes but she mixed and matched those basically white dishes with solid black bowls and salad plates, different placemats, and candles. Our table looked remarkably different, each night, even though it was set with essentially the same dinnerware.

My father was no help. Delighting in the dinner atmosphere that she created, he did irrational things to support her. One day, he sanded and painted three inexpensive, wooden, salt and pepper shakers so she would have some additional touches of color on the table. As you can see, I was doomed from the very beginning.

When you’re a teenager, you don’t really want to be like your parents but I recognized, early on, that I’d be wise to emulate many of my mom’s personal traits. She loved to spend time with friends, had a definite sense of style, and a genuine ease with entertaining. I never seemed to develop her sense of table style or her genuine ease at entertaining. But I loved my friends and somewhere along the way, I must have decided that I could make up for what I was lacking, in the hostess department, with a substantial collection of dishes. I bet even Perle Mesta, the hostess with the mostess, didn’t own as many dishes as I do.

So, my journey down this road of dish acquisition began. To my first, simple set of white, everyday dishes, I added sets that matched the accent colors in my apartment. From there, I moved to thematic dishes…after all, what says yummy breakfast better than a chicken running across your plate? Eventually, holiday dishes joined the collection. Christmas dishes had become quite popular and were easy to find. I’ll probably have a harder time finding Ground Hog’s Day dishes.

Meanwhile, my friends think I’m crazy. Luckily, they haven’t tried a group intervention. My friend, Judy relentlessly asks me when she will be receiving an invitation for dinner. “Roger and I are so looking forward to coming to dinner,” she’ll exclaim, “we can’t wait to eat from lobster dishes and use those matching lobster crackers.” I know she’s just taunting me. And she doesn’t have a clue how long I searched for a set of lobster dishes that coordinated with those red metal lobster pinchers. Nobody really understands.

As we head toward Independence Day, I thought it might be appropriate, for a blog on celebrations, to feature a picture of a festively set table highlighting my Fourth of July dishes. Aren’t they just the cutest… with their little pointed stars and subtle red stripes? I’ll be enjoying them for the entire month. Then, I’ll pack them away knowing I won’t see them again for another year. The only thing that will keep me from shedding tears is the fact that the black dishes with the pumpkins will be out in just 92 more days.

Creating A Trip Down Memory Lane

When a good friend approached me, several weeks ago, wanting some assistance with a 90th birthday party she was in the midst of planning, I was more than willing to help. When she explained that she wanted the decorations to be centered around a collection of photographs spanning more than eight decades of the guest of honor's life...I was thrilled!  I knew this would be just the kind of personalized celebration that I loved planning.

The "Birthday Girl" had but one request....that a small note she received from her mother in 1935 and a few of the sayings that she remembered hearing from her childhood, be included in the festivities.    I could understand how those familiar sayings would have remained so meaningful to her. I was raised by a mother who was philosophical as well as clever so words of  wisdom and bits of witticism decorated my own young life. There are times when those quotes from my youth direct my path, even now.

So we composed a display of  the photos and the cherished expressions (including the handwritten note she had received from her mother all those years ago) to create a charming visual of this special woman's life journey.

A paper road helped to conceptualize the idea of a journey as it curved along the table and through the pictures.

Travels began with a Centerpiece Stake...with a quote

instead of a photo this time...

      and the billboard image served as a backdrop for the sayings. 

(Our delightful billboard was courtesy of  http://www.wpclipart.com/ )   

 

Picture displays are wonderful ways to celebrate all sorts of occasions.  Consider using a journey idea for a graduation celebration, bridal shower, anniversary party, even a celebration for an event that has a shorter life like the nine months before the arrival of a baby. There really isn't an occasion that can't be enriched with the use of photographs. It's the images of family and friends that stay with us a lifetime.