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