Bittersweet Reminiscence

As a lot of you know, I work in a sporting goods store. We have recently been receiving quite a large influx of springtime apparel from the warehouse. Since I have worked there on and off for so many years, I've gotten especially quick at sensoring and hanging clothes. Because of this, lately (more often than not), my job for most of the day is to stay in the stockroom and go to town on the boxes of shipment. I love it. I stand back there not having to interact with other people, listening to music I love while doing something I'm great at. Pretty good setup. I think about a great deal while I'm standing in the stockroom all alone. Most of the time, my thoughts start out as having to do with whatever song is playing. Very quickly, my A.D.D. takes every thought captive. (i.e. I'm listening to Colplay's 'Yellow'. Yellow leads to bananas, bananas lead to the monkeys, monkeys lead to 'The Jungle Book' movie, the Jungle Book leads to being sad that the man who voiced Kaa the snake [Sterling Holloway] passed away, and how the golden age of people are dying off. Then there I am, tearing up while trying to sensor a pair of Nike shorts, and accidentally stab myself with the pin because I can't see through my tears.) All that to say this: Tonight I had no music. The only sounds this evening were the hum of the fluorescent lights above me and the steady, rhythmic shuffle of open, sensor, hang. Open, sensor, hang.

The silence was surprisingly uncomfortable. I don't ever realize how much I loathe the quiet until I can't play music. I can't exactly recall why, or how long I'd been standing there when it took place, but my thoughts eventually drifted to my late great-grandparents, Darrell and Christine Pearce (or Papaw Pearce and Mamaw Christine, as I affectionately called them). After that, there was no getting distracted. The silence all but forced me to dwell on them.

The five stages of grief are Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and Acceptance. Isn't it odd how, when you've pushed something out of your mind for so long, when it creeps back in, you can go through a whirlwind of the same five stages...all over again, within a matter of seconds? That happened tonight as I thought about my departed loved ones. You know, I think there is a sixth stage that often goes without recognition: Bittersweet Reminiscence. It sneaks up on you, and one day it just hits you - You are capable of recalling a memory with your loved one and not getting sick to your stomach. You get happy. You smile ear-to-ear. And instead of pushing the thoughts away, you welcome them in with open arms. This is precisely the experience I had tonight.

Flashback to 1997. It's a Saturday in late September around two o'clock p.m. I'm 5 years old, walking through the front door of Mamaw and Papaw's house. I am greeted by the aroma that only their house holds, and my great grandparents are waiting with open arms and excited smiles on their aged faces. My Mamaw Christine is always the first to squeeze me in her arms. Her hair is fixed, her makeup is done, her outfit is pressed and coordinates perfectly with her flats. I can't wait until I am old enough to wear red lipstick like hers! As she kisses my cheek, she smells of Pond's Cold Creme. My Papaw is next. He's wearing shiny penny loafers, tweed slacks, an Oxford with an undershirt, and his fedora with a REAL LIVE feather stuck in the side! I would love to touch it...but I'll wait until it's on the hook and he's not looking. He hugs me tight and the musty smell of Marlboro reds hits me. I don't know it's the smell of a cigarette yet; I just know it's familiar and I love it. And he loves me. This is what welcomes me every time I visit.

As I proceed, I head straight for the kitchen, hungry as usual. Mamaw takes my bags and whatever toy I have brought with me and puts them in my bedroom. It's really a guest bedroom, but they wouldn't dare let me know it's anything other than mine. As she puts away my things, my eyes scale the pantry. She reenters the room and informs me she's bought Fruit Loops, toaster strudels, orange juice, and peanut butter crackers. She then notifies me that she has all the things to make 'my breakfast'. Every time I'm at Mamaw's, she waits until I wake up to cook me breakfast so that it's nice and hot. She tells me it's ready and I walk into the den where she has a faux parquet TV tray set up for me and television is already on Channel 32 - Cartoon Network. The tray is arranged as follows: from left to right, there is a paper towel, on which lay two perfectly fried pieces of bacon, a bowl of oatmeal, a piece of white buttered toast, cut in two triangles, and a glass of orange juice. My face lights up and my mouth waters in excitement as I daydream about the next morning's breakfast. As I begin to tell her I think I'd like some peanut butter crackers, we're interrupted by a strange buzzing that always startles me - My Papaw's scanner. Over the waves, we hear a man's voice saying some words I don't understand and something about "a wreck on 82." The message ceases and we continue our conversation. I hoist myself up onto one of the chairs at the peninsula that extends from the kitchen. As I open a package of peanut butter crackers, Mamaw pours me a glass of orange juice.

Flash forward to the next morning, six o'clock. I am awakened by the sound and smell of bacon frying. I am instantly hungry. I quickly throw back the covers and let my appetite lead the way. Mamaw is wearing her zip-up robe and Papaw is in his white undershirt and pajama pants. Upon seeing me, Mamaw gets two more pieces of bacon out of the package. I go back to the bedroom to lie down until my breakfast is done. Ah, the good life. We proceed with our regular breakfast routine, I watch my early morning cartoons, then Papaw watches his news, intermittently listening to all the important town goings on through the scanner. When we're all good and awake, Mamaw dresses me to the nines because Sundays are when we go to church and I HAVE to look nice. She puts on my dress, my frilly fold-down socks, and my Mary Jane's that sound like big-girl high heels when I walk. I feel beautiful. We go to church and I go to Sunday school, then the regular service. I honestly try to sit still, but I'm just so fidgety. I really just would like to have some gum because I know Mamaw has to have it in her purse; She always does. I whisper in her ear and she smiles as she retrieves a piece of Wrigley's Doublemint out of her bag. It keeps me distracted just long enough to make it the rest of the way through the service. With the help of a pencil and an offering envelope, of course. What? I love drawing!

Following the service, we have a full-on feast at the house. Everyone is there. Mamaw, Papaw, my great aunt Marsha, and my cousin Jennifer, My great Aunt Nancy, her husband Keith and my cousins Kristal and Keitha. We all talk and laugh and eat a ton. I love this day. Corn, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, chicken, sweet tea and some kind of dessert. I'm so full that I need a nap, but I decide to go collect 'locust' shells with Papaw.

In the south, creatures which are actually cicadas are commonly confused for locusts. Often a lifelong misunderstanding. My Papaw and I have both fallen prey to this idea. These shells scare the living daylights out of me, but when my Papaw's with me, it's not so bad. We take our over-sized Mason jar out the sliding back door, on a mission. The chain link fence, the shed, and all the trees are absolutely covered. I begin to pick them off of the fence and I feel Papaw tap me on the shoulder. He tells me to watch out because something's on me.

As I look down to check my shoulder, I discover the abandoned exterior of a cicada clinging onto the threads of my tshirt sleeve. I shriek in terror as I once again fall for his habitual joke. I really want to be mad, but he is doubled over laughing, and if he's happy, I guess I should be, too. My frown finally turns into a smile, and my smile into a laugh. I continue on with caution, despite knowing it won't be long until he gets me again.

As the sun begins to set, we walk back toward the house with our jar overflowing with cicada shells. We come inside and I strateigcally place them in spots I know Mamaw is bound to go. I can't wait to see her face when she sees a shell right there by the sink when she goes to wash the dishes! Or when she brushes her teeth! Papaw places our trophy on the hutch, and we retire to the den. Mamaw and I finish out the evening coloring and doing a Mickey Mouse puzzle on my TV tray. She always let me lock in the last piece because it makes me feel important. She sure must love me a lot.

I fade back into reality. I realize it's been nineteen years since that was my life. I'm twenty-four years old, at work, and have a job to do. A single tear rolls down my face.

I continued to hang up baseball pants, one by one. I didn't know how many pairs of pants I'd even hung up while taking this mental journey. I had to pause and check the hangers just to make sure the sizers correlated with the tags. I soon realized that replaying this scenario in my mind used to be painful. I would close my eyes and get as far as running through the front door. I'd quickly open them, and no sooner would they be welled up with tears. Not anymore. Tonight, I warily welcomed two days' worth of a visit in my great-grandparents' home. I was surprised with what I felt. I felt loved. I felt safe. I felt whole. It was indeed Bittersweet Reminiscence, but mostly, it was just...sweet.