the Family Before Me

My son went with his friend to the old homestead of his friend's grandparents. His grandparents have both been away from us for several years and the estate is soon to be sold. It is now an overgrown pasture that holds the forgotten framework of the family’s past. The old wooden planked home was modest in size and structure… the camellia bushes that once anchored the corners of the house are now overgrown and push their way into the spaces of the eves and crowd the shingled roof.

The boys stepped over weeds and blackberry vines that held onto their boots and held onto their shirt sleeves. The sounds of the cicadas echoed all around them and the mosquitoes quietly fed upon their exposed necks and dodged the slaps and the sweat and the summer heat. The shed stood before them… The tin roof was mostly tinted in rust with only patches of exposed gray metal. Its plywood door leaned slightly open but was held in place by the overgrowth of the yard and a barrier of a massive red ant pile.

They pulled their way inside and paused while the light found its way into their eyes. This was a forgotten place… a place where things were left for later. After so many years the papers on the bench were dark and layered with dust from the outside summers… the colors were the same on the walls and on the floor. Piles of cut plywood and timber were huddled together like frightened prisoners. There were paper bags filled with dirty cloth and coffee cans tossed into a corner. Hand nailed shelves held lawnmower parts and broken plastic jugs that had given in to the cold and heat of the years. And there was a heavy smell of oil that found its way into their lungs.

They found a stack of large Avon boxes that still held their shape… the green lettering was bright against the beam of the flashlight. They opened the boxes and found canning jars by the dozens. The jars stood like soldiers, lined up between cardboard dividers… waiting patiently. They brought them home to me as a gift… one box upon another until all were safe.

I stood alone at the kitchen counter and opened the first dusty box. It was filled with quart glass jars that revealed their shine with the light through my window. I took the time to notice the details of how they were packed with care and with thought. They were all placed up side down. I recognized the familiar molded lettering on the sides… the names of Ball and Kerr and Mason, written in swirled lettering. Most were made within my generation, but some were from before.

Each jar was loosely wrapped in soft brown paper. The brass colored metal rings very lightly held a flat lid within. They had taken the time to place a small square of plastic wrap under each lid to keep out the dust until its next use. The insides were as clean as the day they were hand dried beside the old porcelain sink in the kitchen of that country home. It is an obligation to take the time to care for them just as the family before me… and with every use the memory continues.

                                                         Shannon R Killman

Extra Change

I’ve been working on a beautiful century old building for almost three months now… the summer months found me searching for relief in front of a fan in the old brick building while we patiently waited for the new air conditioning systems to be installed. They now sit, perched upon her new metal roof.

Every morning as the sun fills the front glass and while I’m planning my morning, I hear the now familiar ringing of the bells on the railroad crossing arms. They are a prelude to the thundering sound of the morning train as it races through town… its air horn fills the air with deafening sound. And I always pause to watch like I have my entire life. I still count the cars and look for graffiti and I remember sitting in my bed as a boy in the night, listening to the distant train on the edge of the city.

The small town has become friendly to me. I see the faces of her people… in the bank, in the corner drug store that still sells small bottles of Coca Cola in an old fading Coke machine. I speak to the man that owns the laundromat across the street… his building once held the town’s post office. The beautiful columns and pressed metal ceiling feel out of place amongst the rusting, commercial washers and dryers and dusty floor littered with used dryer sheets.

The friendly ladies at the insurance office smile and wave as we walk to one of the lunch counters in town... they sit near the windows and look up from their desks. The petite oriental lady at the Chinese food restaurant has my chop sticks ready when I come through her doors… She speaks very little English but smiles shyly and quickly bows her head when I tell her thank you.

The elderly couple that owns the antique shop on the edge of the block is always full of conversation of the town… I know who is selling their estate and where the local barber is moving his business… there’s even word that the mayor is thinking of retiring after his present term is up, but that may only be gossip, mind you. And the elegant crystal blue eyed grandmother of four at the gas station doesn’t have to remind me that pump number two isn’t working… she always asks how the work is coming on our old building.

I still want to sneak out in the night and place pennies on the track like we did at my great-grandmothers house in the desert. She lived behind the tracks and after so many years, didn’t notice the trains as they rolled behind her unfenced yard. The train would rumble in slow motion in the evening as the sun fell near the purple mountains. My brother and I would search through the rocks and over the railroad ties for our pennies… flattened into shiny oval keepsakes. Grandmother Lena would warn us to be careful of the train and tell us the coins may derail it… all the while counting out one cent pieces into our young hands…

I think I’ll carry some extra change to work with me tomorrow…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman