Oy, sorry for the long silence, I’ve been either too busy to write or too depressed to be funny. What can I say, it’s fall, and it’s raining.
Anyway! My brother, who, as we’ve established, is more awesome than your brother, sent me an Artefact! It’s our mom’s old phone book, and I love it because there’s so much of her character in it, and because she always had it – it was a tiny thread of continuity in a childhood so full of change that by the time stability was available I didn’t know how to hold onto it.
There’s her name on the inside cover, and the date she started it – 1973! And she lists all of her addresses below, and the dates when she moved to them, which is actually helpful information, because I don’t remember when things happened, but I can remember things like, oh, “yellow flocked wallpaper, must’ve been the living room on E street, that’d make it about 1985 or so.”
You can see lots of scratching out, because her friends were as transient as she was (I myself have half a page of cross-outs, Wite-Out, and Post-Its pasted over obsolete information, in the A (for Anna) section). There’s also water damage, I don’t remember when that happened, but it was pretty devastating because she liked to use markers. I bet she chose the color for each person very carefully, too. She was like that.
Aaaand one evening when Nate and I were home alone, we made our own additions! You can see one at the bottom of the page there, Poo Poo. There’s also Doorknob (home and work), Rooster Is Dead, Refrorator (probably Refrigerator), and Underwear even had an address, which I will not reveal here – I wouldn’t want to encourage any potential stalkers. I remember a great deal of giggling in the dining room on Garrison street, so we would’ve been 9 or so. Much later, when I was an adult (or as close as I’ve managed to get, anyway) I asked her if she was mad about that, and she said no of course not, it was so creative and funny.
I sure do miss her. If you still have your mom, hug her, okay?
Song du jour of the day: There’s No Such Place, by Augie March.