The first story I shared centered around cars. I started with my first car, a Volkswagen Golf, which my parents bought for me when I was sixteen. I loved that car because of the freedom I felt driving it. I remember tacking up glow in the dark flowers on the ceiling to keep the sagging upholstery attached to the roof, how the handle use to come off in my hand when I moved the front seat forward for my passengers, and losing a hubcap at the end of one brutal winter when I hit a humongous pothole. The two Volkswagen Jettas I owned afterwards were certainly nicer, which was blatantly obvious from the photos, but neither of those cars ever attained the level of sacredness of my first, crappy car. Thinking about all the memorable, and sometimes foolishly dangerous, times spent in that car with friends or the summer nights driving home from my job listening to music and being alone with my thoughts as the warm night air rushed in through the sun roof under the star-filled sky leaves me feeling nostalgic.
In the picture of me with my first car was also my little Lady--our miniature poodle who was a member of our family for nearly twelve years. I showed my students the dog we owned before Lady, our Westie Jordan, who was hit by a truck on our dead end road only a year after we adopted him. I then shared a photo of Aztec, the greyhound we adopted when I was a teenager. Those three dogs were not only a treasured part of my childhood, but they all taught me important life lessons about love. While I felt heartbroken after Jordan died, I learned we don't just get to love one person or thing in this life and with time we can open ourselves up to others. A few months later, we adopted Lady who was so easy to love because she trusted people implicitly and always picked up on people's feelings. I remember one afternoon crying on the couch, and she hopped up beside me and put her little paw on my leg. Her sweet disposition made her the most reliable, lovable companion. After we rescued Aztec, she often barked at me and would shake in fear when I wore a baseball hat. When we adopted her, we knew she had been abused at the racetrack, and we quickly came to the conclusion she was most likely beaten by either a teenager or young adult. Months passed before Aztec felt comfortable with me. I had to work hard to gain her trust, but she eventually came around and would nuzzle her delicate face in my lap as I affectionately stroked the soft, silky fur in the folds of her ears. Those three dogs helped me learn in my formative years how to cope with heartbreak, how love and trust go hand in hand, and how lucky we are to not have just one love in this life, but many different experiences with love.
The next series of pictures I showed them all included my father and tractors. In the first picture, I'm probably five-years-old sitting on my dad's lap on our Cub Cadet riding lawnmower. It's winter time, since we're both bundled up and the trees in the background are stripped bare. I then showed my students a picture of my children sitting with my dad on his blue Ford tractor. It's summertime as I noted the contrast between the rich, swarthy hue of my dad's skin next to my boys' pale soft skin. The final photos were taken on a brisk spring day, and my boys are riding on the toy pedal tractor my father bought for them as he amiably walks beside them.
My father has always loved tractors and work. He is the hardest working man I know. After working a fifty hour week, his idea of relaxing, his hobby, is working on his farm. As a little girl, I was pretty girlie-- I loved Barbie dolls, My Little Ponies, and Fashion Plates. I don't ever really recall my dad playing with me and my girlie toys. What I do remember is working with my dad. I remember bumping along in the trailer behind our riding lawn mower as we rode into the neighboring woods to cut down trees for our wood burning stove. I would explore the woods as my dad's chainsaw whined its way through a tree trunk or would enthusiastically bellow "timber" as a tree collapsed to the ground. After my dad cut up the tree, I would collect the smaller pieces of wood and logs and load them into the trailer. We sometimes would stop to collect the sap from the trees we tapped in the woods and bring it home to boil on the wood stove leaving a heady scent of nature in our basement. I remember going to work with my father after he broke his foot. As a self-employed plumber, if my dad didn't work, he didn't make any money. His broken foot could only be a minor inconvenience as he figured out ways to still do his physically demanding job. I still recall my muscles straining as I helped my dad mix the concrete to pour the steps leading up to our front door and wonder if my little hand print can still be seen more than three decades later. I cherish those times spent with my dad, and once again learned many important lessons. I learned about the satisfaction that comes with completing a job especially a physically taxing one. And even though I was very much a "girlie" girl, I learned from my father there's nothing wrong with a little dirt--it washes off. I also learned I was capable of doing anything. I remember one Saturday afternoon helping my dad on a job, and he patiently showed me how to solder a plumbing joint, carefully guiding and instructing me as I held the flame in my hand. While he knew I never would be a plumber, I think my dad wanted to show me I could do anything. In high school, I was the only girl in my drafting class, but I never doubted my place nor my abilities in that room nor any room mostly because of those experiences with my dad. In my own way, I hope to instill the same confidence in my children, showing them their capabilities and the pride found in hard work.
My students shared their photos and their poems with one another this past week. While all their stories were different, they were also the same. They wrote about family, friends, animals, vacations, birthdays, hobbies and all the complex and sometimes simple feelings associated with them. It was a great lesson about the importance of not only holding on to memories but also sharing them.
