Sentimental Journey

Tim Horton's Cold Stone Creamery.  It's not the same.  I am able to get wifi, coffee, tea and the staff is friendly and very fast.  But, no music.  The floor looks like McDonald's when it's busy.  I can't watch them prepare my "mocha" and remind them not to put whipped cream in it.  There's napkins on the table.  AND there's this little boy (about 4) who keeps repeating, "I want a sprinkled donut".  Brother's didn't have donuts.  I'm the only customer with a laptop here.  I have yet to find an outlet for plugging in.

Glen's?  It has a Starbucks and an area where you can sit and get wifi.  It's cold, noisy,  blah, blah.  I prefer it to Tim Horton's.  Maybe because I can grab some apples or cheese at the grocery before I leave. Maybe because the noise isn't the same.  It has more older people meeting for coffee and donuts (again with the cultural need for donuts to feel happy).  Older people don't feel like they have to shout to be heard across the area.  They talk more "arm length" when they're with their friends. I really like the private, little booths I can sit in and makes me feel I'm in a private space. 

I tried Bigby's Coffee, too. More than once.  It's too cutesy, happy and colorful.  The font on the menu is even annoying.  It's bubbly.  There's only one outlet I've yet to find there, too. It's my last choice here in Gaylord.  

Wernig's Chevrolet is my first choice. They have hot coffee, water, and a clean bathroom.  After I get an oil change or repairs on my car I go in the waiting room and click away.  Thankfully, I don't have to go there often, it can be expensive.  But the atmosphere is excellent. 

I will adjust, but it's not the same.  Change.  It's surrounding and choking me today.  I need my swim in Lake Huron.  I need my five sense submersed in clear water.  No interruptions, no judgement, just pure pleasure. 

I continue to sort through years of family life. With each section of my home it's a new archeological dig into the past.  When I'm trying to focus on my future, it becomes overwhelming.  I'm thankful for the time I spent in the past putting pictures in photo albums and labeling them.  I'm thankful I organized the girls things as they grew up.  For downsizing Christmas boxes when the girls left for college and for taking clothes to Goodwill.  But, it wasn't enough.  The challenge now is to "let go".  Quantity of memory-items feel like a noose.  I tell myself, "Your memory doesn't need something to touch and see to be real."  Research shows the senses of smell and sound are the strongest in igniting memory.  Not a lot of the things I've been going through have either of those. 

I "self-talk" myself into being thankful I have many years of memories to sort through.  The basketball cards, Pokemon cards, Little Mermaid cards.  Scrapbooks  and journals from family trips. Books, books, many books.  Dr. Seuss books, Little House on the Prairie, How to Be a Spy, Lift the Flap, soft books, hard books, books with the corners chewed on. Clocks with pendulums, gears, music and a little bird that comes out of a tiny door.  I counsel myself when I'm immobilized into sitting on the couch and crying a river, "It's okay, it's more of a beginning than an end."  or "Your freedom depends on having less." or "Take a picture of it if it bothers you and get rid of it!!"

I have to admit it's difficult when it's ME making the decisions.  I have no one to blame, no one to argue with (unless you count arguing with myself).  With the huge amount of decisions I've had to make in the last few months, I guess there is a ratio of mistakes that will be made.  It's inevitable.  It's not gambling and taking my chances.  It's more of a conscious weighing my choices and feeling which side of the teeter-totter feels more sensible. It's very personal.  

When deciding, I filter my decisions through the stain-glass. I see like no one else can see.  I only have a few pictures of myself as a child.  I only have memories of toys I played with.  My childhood keepsakes fit in an antique, glossy, black chest with leather handles. (I painted it when I was in high-school) 

• eight heavy, metal jacks in a little cloth bag with a drawstring 
• five old marbles
• a wooden box of letters
• old green shoe-laces
• one white, red-trimmed plate from a tea set
• one small, ripped, red shoe from a doll
• an abacus
• a sliding rule
• a scuba-diving patch
• a name-tag from working at the DNR marina
• a few local newspaper articles
• a broken, hot-pink ring (from U.P. trip to meet my brother, Bob on a ship he was working on)
• a one inch, bavarian-looking, plastic doll (Mike McNamara gave it to me)
• a high-school journal
• pictures of my first love

I feel torn when I "let go" of items.  I feel guilty when I make decisions for my daughters.  I feel panic when I know I'll screw up. I realize I could never see items the same as they would.  I know they'll forgive me.  I know I'll screw up. I'm hoping they'll smile when they see what I kept for them even if it wasn't what they would have chosen. (especially when they see the items I kept in the old, black chest)

I'm counting on making more memories with them.  Memories that can't be wrapped in cellophane.  Can't be boxed and labeled "Storage". Can't be seen or touched. Our hearts will store these memories.  Sound sentimental?  It is.  It's a sentimental journey.