The Bottom Shelf Review

It had been twenty-five years. Twenty and five fast years. Five and twenty short years. The last time I saw her was when Mamaw was in the nursing home. What in the world happened that I haven’t seen her for so long?! The whirring of her hairdryer was hypnotic in its simple buzzing sound that was part of her morning routine. Dismay landed on her face, and she crinkled up her nose making it a distorted image looking back from the looking glass as if it saw her. The kids have kept my life full. I just hadn’t planned for the time to go by so fast! I can’t even believe that Mamaw isn’t here anymore. She thought about how Mamaw had called her Bird and wondered if there were a magic to the name that she chose, and a desire for her to carry herself amongst the trees with the wind beneath her. Mamaw was artistic in everything that she did, and she smiled at the memories knowing how much she had loved her.

Angeline. Her childhood BFF that she called Angie, was a boyish-looking girl with brown cropped hair, and only looked feminine when she started to blossom. They had the best times ever in the creek that rustled past the house, carrying its voice into the air inviting anyone who could hear it to come by its side to discover what it held and drink of its refreshment like a pied piper who put you under its spell. Each visit to its side was invigorating as if it were the first visit and as if it were the last; each memory a building-block to the anticipation of today to reminisce. Just thinking about what was then brought a tear to Bird’s eye as she thought about it, grieving the passage of two childhoods long ago while remembering the one who brought them together. Angeline lived at the start of the lane, a hop, skip and jump that led to Mamaw’s old house. Bird often wondered how Angeline got so lucky being a neighbor in the tiny village of Woodland, Pennsylvania, surrounded by the wooded paradise with crystal waters and their singsong pleasantries at the start of every day and at the end of every day. Mamaw’s aged white wooden house sat right up against the dirt and pebble-tossed lane that hugged up against the creek and was what was left of her childhood home of decades before. An orchard of long ago and the family homestead of life during the Depression created a neutral and drab canvas that Mamaw painted on with great colors of memories that were indeed no accident. She determined that her grandchildren would not be haunted like her, and the ghosts of the homestead where meanness thrived, and children conformed were exorcised out of her mind with sprinklings of happiness that came as thought. She first remembered Mamaw’s catchphrase at the dinner table when something tasted off. “Put a little sugar on it. That will make it taste better!” It was her recipe for life. She cooked like that, and she played like that. She created newness that brought the scenery to life without any money to make it happen. Her house was nothing to look at while being the greatest place in the world. Tin roof that the rains drummed on to a perfect rhythm, a big wooden porch for roller skating and old crippled railing that Mamaw laughed at if we knocked loose. The slender slats of white wooden siding painted up nicely when she gave us a summer project once to paint the old home and give it a facelift. It was most fun because it did not have to be perfect; it was perfect after all. The dirt lane was the dividing line between the house and the creek, and was like a highway of fast-paced energy carrying little feet of grandchildren and children of the local neighborhood to its destination of victory. She couldn’t help but wonder if the pot-holed lane somehow enjoyed the footprints that left their mark on it as if its dirt could embrace the soles of each shoe that stepped on it. While ground rock is no living thing, all that travelled upon it were, and its grayish muteness birthed the sounds of laughing children who forgot about the absence of their dad. The girls had both been unfortunate and given life without much interaction from these men that their hearts so loved. Each day spent at the creek was the same, yet timeless, staying fresh, young, and new. The girls carried homemade fishing poles that Mamaw made them with a nice-sized, weathered stick of variegated browns, fishing line tightly tied to, and a hook on the end. They had days where they would spend hours digging up worms that they’d never need to use for fishing bait. Their coveted creatures’ squiggly antics were delightful while prissiness was far from their thoughts. It was another adventure as the worms played hide and seek along with catch me if you can. They caught more worms than they ever did fish.

Fish weren’t their only animal sport, for other creatures captured their attention. Quieted, pale pink crayfish who reacted like they were from the great big tank at Red Lobster, hid amongst and under the rocks while the two young girls went about seeking them resembling little pirates on the hunt for buried treasure. “Angie, I see one!” and Angie turned around and hurriedly reached down to grab it before it danced away with its beady, black eyes that taunted, “You missed!” at the young girls who wanted them as pets. Little black skippers joined in, flicking past them like ebony dots in a game of tiddlywinks, and the imagined smiles as they, too, teased as best as they could. Schools of minnows gathered nearby, and they, too, joined in the games as flashes of light that came and went without a trace. There was always construction going on, stacking large rocks and the building of a wall to create a little dam so that the water level would rise above their knees. Hours would pass before Mamaw would call them in for lunch, and the girls would forget that they were freezing in that ice-cold shaded spring of refreshment on a hot summer day.

Not every day was spent in the creek by the house. Wednesday was the day for the Belleville Sale Barn and a yard sale or two that Mamaw always called rummage sales. They had the best fun rummaging through the throwaways of others. “Oh, looky here!” and Mamaw would hold up something colorful. She would glow at the find of something that caught her fancy. Back and forth we would hold up treasures and Mamaw, without a doubt, would glow and say, “Would you like to have that?” another of her catch phrases. She did not have opportunity to give expensive things, and no one ever thought about it. She gave treasures anyway. She saw little eyes filled with longing and felt the delight of being the giver. The girls knew she was like that with everyone, and anytime someone was at her house and saw something that they liked, she would glow and ask, “Would you like to have that?” and the visitor left with the treasure. The girls heard this plenty of times in her what’s mine is yours habit!

Bird looked at the clock and knew she needed to get out the door to be on time to meet up with Angie. She looked forward to the lengthy drive to reach her coveted destination. Her little red car had become not only her transportation, but an essence of a little red bird whose voice could fly and reach heights that took its heart above the trees as if the wind were beneath it. It was within her car that she used the words to sprout wings and reach the listening ears of the Father that she had longed for, for she talked to God everywhere she went in it. Mamaw had taught her to talk to Him as if talking to a friend. “This is it, God! I can’t believe I get to spend the day with Angie.” Bird travelled along and spoke to her heart’s content, aware that she had been listened to. “I don’t know where I’d be without Mamaw, God. I remember all the years I asked you to put my parents back together. Now that I’m an adult, I know that my relationship with Mamaw wouldn’t be the same if I’d have gotten my wish. She was the one who I clung to… She taught me about You. I used to think that all I was ever going to do was cry and the many times I called her, she knew how to talk to me to make it better. Mom couldn’t afford the phone call expense. Mamaw used to tell me that if I really needed her, just call, and reverse the charges… It sure was different then than it is today…” Bird kept her eyes on the road, and pulled her mind from heartaches past as she noticed the mountainous woods around her and the treetops so high. “Do you remember, God, that time she told me that she had a dream that I was a baby… and she was holding me… And we were floating above the treetops, and the wolves were jumping up at us trying to get us and we couldn’t gain any altitude? I surely know what those wolves were, God, and she worked hard to keep me away from them. She was like You… She knew that I was in a threatening place. She told me how she felt, yet gave me the freedom to decide for myself. I knew that she loved me no matter what I decided to do, and she would be there for me either way.” Bird’s drive continued along. The greenery of the mountains looked greener and more beautiful, the blue skies bluer than the start of the day, and heavenly realms on earth whispered back without having a voice. She did not know what awaited her, but He did. Her conversation changed and she started to laugh at recollections of the funny things Mamaw did. “Lord, do you remember how she used to wear two skirts at a time so she could just pull one off if it got dirty and the one underneath was clean? Her pink skirt she made was the prettiest and she liked that stretchy fabric with the elastic waist. I have some of the fabric from it in the quilt we made together. What about the time we stood under the rain spout? Do you remember that, Lord? We laughed and laughed while we got soaked. She told me for a long time after how that fresh rainwater made her hair so soft. She even did it again by herself!” Bird laughed at her funny grandmother. “She only ever wore skirts because that’s how her generation dressed, except, and You know this, if we went fishing to cover her legs in case there were itch weed. The staff at her nursing home put pants on her when she had dementia. When I asked her about it, she said, ‘I got these to go fishing!’” Bird smiled with the memories. “Thank you that she didn’t know she was there for so long. She always said, ‘I’ve been here for two weeks now,’ when she had been there for six, seven, eight years or so. I don’t even remember anymore. She’s been gone for fifteen years now… I miss her.” Her wings were flapping along, and her grief had lifted, her sorrow was soothed, and she knew that He heard everything that she said.  

Bird pulled into Angie’s house. What a lovely place that she had! It had a rustic appearance, and a homey feel that Bird knew meant this was a great place to be. She had flowers planted everywhere and décor that added a taste of yesterday in the big wagon wheel and wooden glider that accented her big porch for sitting. To this day, Angeline’s home is a place for neighbors to gather and visit. They talk about their day, laugh their cares away, and plan on what they hope to do on the weekend. The swimming pool out back was inviting, and Bird knew that this, too, was a place to gather, just like the abstract circle dubbed “The Smiling Pool” in the woods of Woodland where they grew up. Angie showed her through her house, and they left to head to Belleville, just a few miles away.

The small town of Belleville was full of hustle and bustle just like every Wednesday in the summer at the Sale Barn. Cars of all shapes and sizes were mixed with the Pennsylvania Dutch buggies that made themselves at home in their designated places in the grassy parking lots. There were no noticeable differences in the interactions with one another. Friendliness was the culture, and it didn’t take long to feel you belonged there. People of all ages with children in bonnets and barefoot, and children in baseball caps and sneakers, held hands with their parents looking forward to piping hot goodies for lunch or baked goods from the pastry tents. The girls, who were now women, headed for the rummage area. They had just arrived, and in the anticipation to enjoy the day, Bird’s eyes scanned the sights ahead of her. Little did she expect what was waiting for her. It was if she had been supernaturally nudged when her eyes transported into two telescopic lenses at the sight a short distance away where she saw it. The booth at the corner of the lot had a simple primitive painting and its familiarity struck her. Goose bumps covered her insides from her head to her toes like a parade of honking trumpeters heralding her entry and she said to her friend, astonished, “Angie, Mamaw painted that. I’m sure she did!” Bird stepped away, then stepped toward the painting again. How could this be? They scurried to the woman tending the booth where it was displayed on a rack, gleaming with the price tag of one dollar. The girls asked the booth attendant where it came from, and she had not a clue. Bird trembled, still filled with awe, and pulled a dollar from her purse. She had become numb at what had transpired and tried to wrap her head around how long this painting had been missing from the family homestead of long ago. Mamaw had been gone for fifteen years and before that, she had been in a nursing home for some years. And now the painting belonged to Bird. “Angie, I’m going to see if I can find a picture of this at home hanging on Mamaw’s living room wall.” The girls finished out what was a long day and what was a short day, and Bird parted for home. Her ride home, like always, held the conversation of one voice, hers, and not an audible one in response. She did not need to hear His voice, for He had already spoken to her as if to say, “Would you like to have that?”

The first thing Bird did when she arrived home was go to her black box of family photos and sort through the collection of Mamaw’s, hunting for her treasured painting in a photo somewhere. She did not find the photo she was looking for, but she did find another… There in front of her was the photo Mamaw used to paint her picture. Bird could see that it had been damaged a little, and oil paint was smeared on the back, hinting at Mamaw’s messy art room that never stayed tidy. It wasn’t perfect, and it did not have to be because it already was. And just like the painting, the trip turned out to be not only a tangible response to special times of long ago, but a reminder that He hears each word that we say, and surprises us when we least expect, just like the loving Father who listens to the voice of his children.