Messages To My Daughter

Maybe its age, or that dullness of becoming a mother whose children have sort of outgrown her. But more likely it is nostalgia, that longing for something that stands the test of the time that is worth something that has women of a certain age (or any age) running in and out of thrift stores and Goodwills, hunting treasures at every run down variety store they pass.

Stores, that not that long ago looked pretty suspicious – or owned by a hoarder full of dust and the home to some rogue cat that is there only to keep the critters away. No doubt, thrifting is BACK, and vintage – is now a thing. Anything old is vintage. Add the word vintage to a terra Cotta pot, and suddenly its something worth a resell.

Let’s face it, every kid who got their tooth knocked out by a 10 pound ashtray in amber brown or green, or who dropped the damn thing on their toe remembers having one in their house.

Corning-Ware and Pyrex (in all capitals of course) are making their comeback, resurrected from the estate sales of our grandmothers and their moms – once landing in cardboard boxes to be sealed a forever fate – are now worth something again. So, people hunt. And we sift. And we stop in and look for deals on items that were never thrown away, simply outlived by the owners. Passed down to a generation that decided they didn’t match, and instead made a registry of new and shiny things that we deem (or deemed) as something more valuable.

The irony of a Dollar General popping up every few miles is not lost on me. Neighborhoods that used to only have a gas station where beans were $4 a can and you were lucky if they were even in date, that sold gas, tobacco and alcohol are now being displaced by the DG.

Dollar Generals are the internet, social media feed versions of today’s shoppers and our squirrelly mental focus that just cannot get enough stimuli. They give anyone the ability to spend a few bucks on an impulse buy that makes them feel a little better for a little period of time for just a little bit of money. And one we don’t feel bad about throwing away in a few months because, well it’s basically utter junk. It’s not meant to last. It’s not meant to become something like the glass ashtray, or the milk glass bowls, or the Fenton vases, or the pristine sets of China we remember from our childhoods that literally bring us to a different time in our lives.

Most of us have that memory of a certain dish that was always cooked in a certain pot at holiday dinners. We remember the knick-knacks that sat in our mothers and grandmothers houses. The set of Pyrex, maybe with a little bit of the design worn off because of use that filled our elders cabinets. Probably the very ones we told them they needed to replace, or get rid of. And of course heirlooms, and pieces of chunky real wood furniture that proudly took up space in the homes of our childhoods.

Today, we have junk. We fall for phases and Tik-Tok and Amazon ‘best sellers’ or must haves – made in bulk, somewhere on the other side of the ocean. We follow influencers and switch decor in our homes as quickly as we do fashion. One day its farmhouse, the next its something else. Our couches and shitty furniture end up in a yard sale just because we want to change to Sherwin Williams color of the year.

Blame it on our attention span, or whatever you want – meanwhile that green refrigerator and pink bathroom sink and toilet are still holding up just fine in some grandmas home.

At its absolute base, everyone is always searching for something that means something. We get older and we lose people and realize usually too late how important tradition is, how meaningful vintage feelings are, and covet the ability to return to things so simple that made us feel like we were home. We think about the red velvet cake, or the wooden beam in the middle of our grandmothers couch that we cracked out assbone on one too many times.

Then there were the doilies, and her reminding us to use a damn coaster. We find coziness in realizing just how awesome it was that there were moments when a paper plate – no matter just how much work it would save – were unacceptable and downright heathenish. That there were people who still gladly and proudly used the good dishes – because they thought YOU WERE WORTH IT, and because they were proud.

And you have to admit – the food and the drinks somehow tasted better. The flowers stood taller in that very specific vase, and the crocheted blankets somehow kept you warmer than any of the soft fluff TJ Maxx is selling.

So here we are, seeking. Thrifting is cool again. Vintage is the new style. You peruse an aisle or open a box, and can instantly be transported backward, surrounded by memories of a time when our attention spans were not quite as short.

There’s a reason that in a time where we can find anything we want, easier than ever before in history, that people are snooping through the aisles of variety of stores, attending estate sales and making Goodwill great again.

Our lives today are basically filled with shitty things, things that aren’t made well, that aren’t even meant to last, and will unlikely survive the generations. Although we love that beautiful new dish we found at the Home store – next holiday we will have grown bored of it because it was never supposed to be a heirloom, and because our brains are so fixated on the next thing that we have stopped creating so many things of value in this day and age.

We have pulled out the paper plates. Even the silver plastic silverware to save ourselves the dishes. Even though it is those very dishes that we can remember towel drying as kids – in a kitchen where we were grudgingly sent to do chores, perfectly drying that pink gooseberry dish while our elders played cards over coffee or tea (or whatever it was in those cups).

Today, there isn’t much we wouldn’t do to find that same dish – so for at least a moment, we could feel what life was like then, remember the smile of whomever owned it, and have a story to pass on to our own people, and a feeling in our heart than no Dollar Tree find is going to give us.

Love & Light, 
Simply Stef @ Messages to My Daughters 

Grief. One minute you think you are passed the worse, and the next an ordinary moment ignites something inside your heart that burns so painfully, you wonder how you will make it to the next breath.

“They” say, that time heals all wounds, that in time the pain will not feel so fresh, so raw – and you will move forward. The proverbial ‘they’ lie. There may be longer spaces of time between thinking about the loved one lost. Then you start worrying you will forget. Their voice. Their touch. Their eyes in certain moments. You worry that not thinking of them means you are losing them even further into the deep abyss of death.

Today, it was an old, terribly ugly fan. The kind of fan that is silver and tall and way too heavy with some sort of thick concrete base that was deteriorating leaving debris all over my bedroom floor. In the last few months it only oscillated while simultaneously making a screeching noise that gave away its every turn and made it impossible to sleep. A fan with screws that were stripped making it no longer adjustable. And most lately, a fan that would take a good 10 to 20 minutes warm up enough to actually turn on and spin the blades, the motor humming inside with indecision about whether it had enough life left to blow at all, probably a fire hazard.

An ugly fan that my dad kept in his wood workshop for all the years I could remember. Outside in his garage he would create his masterpieces, tinkering with wood and stain and cutting grainy boards with notches and bends until everything fit just right. Every time I saw him, I would walk into the garage and he would greet me with one of those hugs only a dad could give. Then we would talk while he fiddled, me admiring his work and worrying about the bleeding coming from some place on his arm, hand or finger. Without fail, he would have the fan on, swirling manly scents and saw dust, man glitter – all around the garage. Undertones of his sweat, not the kind from too much exercise or not bathing – but rather from the bake of the afternoon sun beaming into the shop and warming his skin the way an oven baked bread. The same smell that would linger on my clothes after his hugs. It smelled like my dad. Like home, in the way only your parents can smell. And there was the trusty fan wafting the incense around the garage, and in my heart.

I couldn’t throw that fan away, so I dragged it into my bedroom and hoped that somehow the coolness would comfort me in the same way that my dad did. How could I throw it away?

How could I toss it, even though it was most likely a fire hazard and deteriorating right in front of me? Why would I keep it, when it was long passed its expiration date? For weeks now, its just sat there – the big head of the fan staring at me while I slept, holding space in the corner of my room. Recently, afraid to turn it on and sparking a fire, I decided it needed to go. But how do you let go of something like that?

And that’s when grief – she came back and slapped me upside the head as I was dragging it to the trashcan. I knew I could no longer turn it on and smell the familiar mix of sawdust and sweat, and yet I was torn between keeping the relic, perhaps hoping that it would keep me closer to the man I lost. Part of me knew it wouldn’t, that those memories live in my heart – and yet another part of me felt like letting it go would only cause more amnesia, more forgetting, more distance between my dad and I.

That’s what grief looks like to me. A sturdy old metal fan, with rusty spots and squeaking in places WD40 can’t reach, that somehow lost its ability to diffuse the magical scent of home, no matter how much my heart begs.

Simply, Stef!

Just yesterday, you toddled out of your bedroom in the warm sunlight of morning, unsteady on your feet, with a diaper hanging down to your knees needing to be changed. You saw me, and your eyes lit up – knowing everything that you needed to be happy, safe, content, nourished could be found in my eyes and arms.

It really was just yesterday.

So today, as you toss your beautiful long hair behind your shoulders, your eyes glowing with glitter mascara and grab your purse with a nonchalant ‘see ya later’ as you pull the car keys off the hook on the wall – know that I am trying.

I am trying to look into your eyes and not see the infant that I nursed, the toddler that I rocked to sleep, the kindergardner that I walked into school every day with tears streaming down your face, the adolescent that told corny jokes and had to be reminded to wear deodorant.

I am trying.

If I could ask one thing of you, it would be to let me down easy. To tread softly on this heart of mine, and to every once in a while let me know that while I raised you to be confident, and strong, and independant – you still need me just a little. Ask me for advice on how to wash your sweaters, or send me a text about a recipe that you want to make but need some hints.

When you are out late enjoying your young adulthood, take the 5 seconds to send me a text and let me know that you are alright, you are safe. All those years whenever I worried, it took little more than a walk down the hall to open a creaking door to see your face, the face of an angel – fast asleep and dreaming, warm and snug in a freshly washed bed laced with the fresh smell of fabric softener.

So much has changed for you. But for me, it remains the same. An undying love and devotion to you and your life. I am adjusting. I am learning how to navigate this new terrain where I am not needed as much. I am so proud of the woman you have become. But all I ask, is for you to let me down easy.

Let me down easy. Let me know you still need me from time to time. Let me know that you still like my hugs. Resist the urge to pull away when I place my hand on your forehead when you feel unwell. Let me kiss you goodnight. Even though you can do everything on your own, a testament to my dedication to making you complete – from time to time, let me do a thing or two for you. Let me be your person, your go-to. Never stop sending me those late night texts, or sharing your cares and worries with me. Let me feel useful for just a little longer.

I promise I am working on letting go. I am working on it. But in the meantime, ask me to cook you your favorite meal, even though you know how to cook it yourself. Listen to my advice without shaking your head and assuming I don’t understand because I am old. Continue to bounce through the front door unleashing all your stress and strife on me on those particularly hard days.

I am trying. Nobody told me about this part. No one warned me. No one mentions that after the baby that I feel in love with, after the child, after the teenager, comes the adult…who would need me less and less as the days go by. No one told me that the young woman you are today, would make me both burst with pride and mourn the loss of my purpose… and find my new one.