What do you think of white picket fences?
What is the first thing that comes to your mind?
A perfect house? With perfect people? Surrounded by a white picket fence. A life of luxury?
There are three things that I think of when I think of white picket fences.
The Karate Kid.
Tom Sawyer (the one book in my childhood that I only read the beginning of and still managed to get in “A” in English that semester.)
And my job painting white picket fences growing up. Specifically my grandmother’s (though I painted so many white fences…SOO many.)
When I see a white picket fence, (not the vinyl kind) the first thing I think is how long it must have taken the person to paint it. How many hours in the hot sun. When I see a white picket fence, I think of hard work. Hot sun, and sunburns and several nightly game of cribbage.
I put up part of a white picket fence this past weekend. To keep me company in my favorite summer reading/ sleeping area. And while I was painting it, with my headphones on, just like I did when I was teenager, I thought of her.
…………………………..
Memorial Day weekend, while reserved for the military men and women who have fallen, is something different to me. First of all, meaning no disrespect by any means, this has been a weekend, growing up, I didn’t know anything about barbecues and clothing sales. Or that the remembrance was supposed to be for the military. For me it was about my family. ALL of them. And there were too many to not include the ones who didn’t serve. Who were too young to serve. Who stayed home while others did serve. I spent the day hauling literal trunk loads of silk flowers to a cemetery that I know all the sections of. With my grandmother in her high heels and pleated skirts and painted nails. I know where everyone is. I know all the names. Most of whom died much too early in life, in ways you shouldn’t. It was a weekend I watched my family often cry. Pull out photographs. Tell stories. Count the years they’ve been gone. And no matter how high that number… it was still really hard.
By the way….. I hate silk flowers.
It’s been two years since I visited the cemetery.
I will.
My Grandmother was not that much older than my mom is now when I lost her. 17 years ago. She was my rock And I’m petrified of losing my mom. We’ve become each other’s rock. Because we have to. We are the ones left.
But painting that white picket fence the other day… I knew she was with me. I just wish when I was done, she could play cribbage with me.