Memories

In my home office, there’s an antique lawyer’s bookcase made of oak and stained a medium brown. The first two shelves hold books I’ve not yet read. On the third shelf sits a small collection of family treasures.

 There’s my father’s pocket watch—the timepiece he carried throughout his years as assistant chief train dispatcher for a railroad. It rests beneath a tiny glass dome, suspended from a peg at its center. Ironically, Dad quite literally ran out of time, passing away less than a year before he was eligible for retirement.

 Next to the watch is a small cobalt blue Shirley Temple glass, a 1935 giveaway from Bisquick Baking Flour. I imagine that receiving anything for free during the Great Depression must have brought joy to my mother’s family. My mother’s name was Shirley, and she was six years old in 1935. Did her mother give it to her? Or was it passed down after Grandma died? When I cradle the little four-inch cup in my hands, it feels like I’m holding a piece of her childhood.

 Photos share space on the third shelf as well. One snapshot shows our dark blue 1968 Ford Falcon station wagon with a silver bullet-shaped trailer attached. On the back, Mom had written: “The Sniders, home from the Smokies – 7/68.” On the reverse side of that same photo is a picture of me standing between my parents. It’s 1980, and I’ve just graduated with a degree in music.

 Wearing cap and gown, I have one arm draped over my mother’s shoulders. Dad stands on my other side, hands behind his back in an almost military stance. His light blue leisure suit, complete with vest, brings back memories of his attempts at fashion. He dressed up for special occasions like graduations and trips to the horse races.

 The pocket watch, the Shirley Temple glass, the photographs—they ground me. Impermanence is the only thing guaranteed in life, but these objects remind me that my roots matter. The artifacts of my Midwestern upbringing are powerful reminders that joy and struggle are my birthright, just as surely as day becomes night.

~ Julie Snider