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Mining the Mem As a gift to our children and grandchildren, I have been “downsizing” 10 scrapbooks that date back to my early childhood — when the population of Florence, Alabama, was 24,000 and World War II was ending. A small letter costs 2 cents to mail with a three-line address: Harriet Tomlinson, Sherrod Ave., City. The remnants of my history lay before me, and I began turning the fragile pages, carefully opening the tiny, mailed invitations to small dances and gatherings our parents had for us in our homes. Tasseled dance cards with boys’ names scribbled in pencil filled the adjacent page. I remembered each boy, wondering what their years have been like — are they still alive? I know that a few are. I found two elementary school “newspapers” – “The Kilby Feast” — 8-1/2 x 11, numerous pages, printed by sixth graders on a duplicating machine. The faded purple ink no longer stained, but I could still read the “interest” articles, riddles, jokes and sports — all written by children. A fourth grade joke: “Sam was about to leave for the office. ‘Dear’, said his wife, ‘Does money talk?’ ‘Yes’ Sam said, ‘That’s what they say.’ ‘Well I wish you would leave some here to talk to me during the day. I get so lonesome.’” Hmm!
dent’s daughter) even sang there — in our high school auditorium. Our children didn’t know those artists when I mentioned how excited I had been about the performances. It caught me by surprise. They were world renown. Who would remember? Who would care? Indeed, who would cherish those recollections — my history? I put the programs back in the save pile. I looked again at the discarded items, and at the saved ones, thinking of the friends who have colored my life. I began writing names on manila envelopes, putting aside articles and pictures that would bring smiles through the mail. Pages in subsequent books covered high school and college. Two letters from an attentive beau — he ended up at Harvard. I perused the Internet for Harvard reunions. His name didn’t match the picture — a bit rounder and with less hair than I recall. Then I moved along through travel itineraries, music programs, wedding invitations (attendants in several), funeral services. Our own wedding announcement, toasts to the brides and grooms, pictures (often black and white).
Group class pictures of each year — the skirts of our dresses pulled down to our shoes as we all sat on the amphitheater steps – hair uncombed, mostly not posed. Awkward pictures from 6th grade summer camp — we looked so chubby, so unsure of ourselves. Summer church and music camps — transitions into high school — the same friends through the 12th grade! The yearly changes were appreciable.
A new scrapbook, 1975-1981, starkly changed the memorabilia and the memories. The pages, covered with crayoned swirls and “artistically” pasted flowers for Mother’s Day tell my motherhood story. Circular drawings of faces with huge eyes and mouths, four or five strands of hair growing out of the heads, wide-opened stick arms — and always a heart. Kindergarten at St. Michael’s and her loving teachers — Miz Wishon, Miz Palmour, Miss Hazel — only three of the beloved ones! Days of sweet performances, All Angels Chapel, choirs and acolytes!
Another book: full of programs from our town’s concert series — a huge community effort: Rubinstein, Heifetz, Beverly Sills, Fred Waring, operas! A friend from those years reminded me that Margaret Truman (the Presi-
Articles, loving notes of remembrances and cards, connected our three sons to us through middle school, mission trips, jazz and marching bands, high school and college. Occasionally, the tears fell as my memories of
