Standing in the midst of the technological tsunami that swallows entire networks of people with it's hypnotic digital clicks, I calculate precisely how I'm going to make my gadgets and devices work for me; (all of which are necessary for my valiant stand against the forces vying for control of the minds of the masses. Keenly aware that I too am a victim, I accept that the potential is only limited by the ability to think the thought, and the vast avenues of exploration overwhelm even the most ambitious thinkers.)
Productivity, greener living, entertaining, multidimensional existence (or is it?), reading, convenience, cool factor, cutting edge in a pop music kind of way, recipes in the kitchen, Apple, - but mostly the books - paperless books, I have my entire library with me at all times. I can read whatever I'm in the mood for and I can buy books anywhere there is wi-fi. All these confirm the iPad's necessity in my life, not a luxury, a must.
Will I miss the paper? Hell yes. I love paper. I love to fold the edges, write in the margins. I break the binding on paperbacks on purpose to help the paper flow as I scroll through it with my thumb. I keep paper in my desk, on my counter, in my bookbag, the console of my car, my nightstand, and my purse. I love graph paper the most, index cards too. I rewrite notes and lists to myself because there is a pretty piece of yellow paper that needs to be written on. I make lists of what lists I've made. I write in cursive and print, all caps and cursive print mix, just because playing with how letters look is fun. Now I keep all my lists on the Notes app in a comic sans style font (yellow lined digital paper with a running index of all my lists and notes, timed and dated.) I will miss my paper, but my iPad makes me a little greener.
Then of course, the yoga podcasts and guided meditations, the photo slide shows, the music library, the newspapers and magazines, the calendar and the games for my babies - all this in one little flat, skinny, shiny, fingerprint smudged device.
When I got my ipad there was one screen, and it was blank. Without much effort I filled seven screens with more than twenty apps on each screen. I have Nook, Kindle, and iBooks, Craigslist, Ebay, Priceline, and Amazon, Ted, NASA, the City Paper, NPR, BBC, and The New Yorker. I added Fandango, Flixster, Netflix, and Pandora, Marvel comics for Jake, Calvin & Hobbes for Abbey, FingerPpaint and Etch a Sketch for me. I have WebMD so I never need a real doctor again, and yoga so I can make myself well.
Glimpses of who keeps company with me in possession of the tools for technological enlightment terrifies me at the least. The first group is the people with money that buy it because they can, but have no idea what they will use it for or how. The next group are the technologically wealthy who have it because they can, know how to use it and flaunt it. Then of course are the people who get it because it's the newest, coolest thing, and they save or borrow for this one next cool new thing. And then there's me. I can't afford it, don't really need it, know exactly how to use it, and indulge because, well, I convinced John that he should buy it for me and he did because I always get what I want.
John's accountant Bob and his wife Janna purchased their iPads. They fall into the group of buying it because they have enough money. They will play solitaire on it while sitting in recliners in their living room. Which is fine, you can do that with the iPad. Bob called. He needed John to come fix his printer because he wanted to print the iPad manual.
27 October 2010
You can catch an eel with squid.
Saturday, October 16, 2010 ~ 7:30 am
Still woozy more than 30 minutes later. I hesitate to recount the last two hours. I write about it to sort it out.
The morning began two days ago, purchasing Guy Harvey T-Shirts for spirit day at school. I ventured into a fishing store, left with a $25 fishing pole, some squid for bait, a blue t-shirt with a fish on the back for Jake, and a pink one for Abbey. She wanted yellow, but we bought the two they had.
The story actually begins two years ago. George said he wanted to take them fishing, a strangely delusional request, but probably one intended to linger in my life as a reminder of the lies we tell. I don't know if he had ever been fishing in his life. More likely, he anticipated Jake's need for such a thing. With the Disney fishing rods they got for Easter, they fished in the little lake behind John's house just a month before George's death. He sat in a wheelchair wrapped in a blanket with a hat to keep his warmth in. The wind blew a March breeze through the branches of the live oak by the dock. The bugs swarmed, patience demanded we do something different, and the fishing trip ended.
Since George's death, we live with a dock in our backyard, and Jake asks to fish regularly. So with the new gear and some basic instructions on casting, one evening of practice catching a sting ray with John, Jake and I start our Saturday morning fishing from the dock.
As with all of my adventures, I don't think it through all the way. I figure Jake can cast it and pull it in. He knows how to bait the hook. All I'll have to do is get the hook out and throw the sea life back using the pliers. I saw it done with a sting ray and I didn't freak out.
With smiling anticipation, I find the pliers, the bug spray, a chair, my camera, phone, green tea and incense. Confidence reminds me that Jake visions me a super hero, saving the day, using my powers to twist minds, travel between dimensions and conquer fear. He'll grow up one day and say, my mom makes magic, casts spells, and defeats monsters.
The tidal marsh tempts us to cast half way down the dock. Cutting the frozen squid doesn't make my stomach spin. This pleases Jake. With great caution and attention, he slides the squid on both hooks. A few failed casts cause him to pause and think through the steps. He remembers to let go. He beautifully sends the line into the shallow middle. Soon, too soon, he reels it in, repeat 3 or 4 times. Then he settles and leaves it, leaning the pole on the railing.
After catching a stick and losing a hook, he recasts, landing in the deep reeds of the pluff mud. The weight and hook are stuck. At first we seriously consider Jake adventuring into the crab's domain to untangle the line from the grass. Healthy fear stops Jake. I tug and wiggle the line from this mess. Saving the day - check.
Jake, ready to abandon the bonding, suggests trying just once from the floating dock. Patience and positive energy, I insist. "Baby Jake," I tell him, "we are going to catch something." The dolphins spout agreement as they swim by. Perfection, I assure him. Life doesn't get more pleasant than this. Twisting minds - check.
He casts it for me and invites me to hold the rod. He shows me how to bring the line back a little. He instructs me never to turn the reel the wrong way. He sits on my lap and we wait. Far too quickly, I feel a tug on the line. Twice I reel it in, learning the weight of the line. The third time though, the pull is different. At times I feel the struggle a real contest. Jake wants to try, I hand him the rod. He struggles too, but pulls it in, a gross snake, a heavy, fat, slimy, grayish green sea snake's mouth stuck, bait still on the hook. I feel the swell and drop in my brain as the nerves in my forehead flow and tingle. I focus enough to seek my safe place. I hold the line, trying to gauge the movements of the eel. Jake brings the pliers. I twist and tug, trying to release the hook from his mouth. The dock floats with each passing boat's wake. The eel flops and flails.
Jake calls John, very calmly describes the scene, maybe falsely, but with certainty, declares the eel electric. My mom is holding the line. We don't know what to do he says. He hands me the phone. Recalling my words is like remembering the first time I held a pencil.
Perhaps I said, "will it hurt me? tell me what to do."
The obvious solution was to cut the line, but I didn't know what of the little metal pieces, round beads, a mini carabiner, could afford to be lost. I called John again. This time I know I said, "please come save the day." His frustration of being woken by this haphazard mini crisis traveled through the wire. "Melissa, I never thought you would be good at this," he said. "Put the eel back in the water so it doesn't die." I wanted the eel to die. But now I was sick. I could feel the motion of the still air. Steam formed around my hairline from the temperature drop in my face and neck and the reflection of my face in the water revealed the gray-green of the fish. "I'm going to vomit. I need you to not tell me I suck at this and come save the day."
Witnessing the moment, an arms length away, torn between interesting events, the eel flopping or mommy melting down, Jake quietly observed.
John urged, "If Jake wants to fish he'll have to learn how to get the eel off the hook. It's not electric, it's just nasty."
Right, I think, could he learn about getting the nasty eel off the hook when someone else is teaching him because right now, I'm out here on the moving dock with the eel flopping on a sharp hook and I might pass out if that slimy eel touches my baby boy.
"Oh..., oh no, I'm definitely going to vomit." I say.
Dimension travel - Fail. Still in a three dimensional situation, unable to teleport to safety, I say, "Jake, you can do this."
Again I hang up. Jake you can do this. I search my words, which are jumbled and missing right now, as I describe how I want him to use the pliers to unlatch the carabiner, but my words come out sounding more like metal... bead... push... tug.
Jake cut the line, the eel sluggishly left the scene with the hook attached and we found my kryptonite.
Still woozy more than 30 minutes later. I hesitate to recount the last two hours. I write about it to sort it out.
The morning began two days ago, purchasing Guy Harvey T-Shirts for spirit day at school. I ventured into a fishing store, left with a $25 fishing pole, some squid for bait, a blue t-shirt with a fish on the back for Jake, and a pink one for Abbey. She wanted yellow, but we bought the two they had.
The story actually begins two years ago. George said he wanted to take them fishing, a strangely delusional request, but probably one intended to linger in my life as a reminder of the lies we tell. I don't know if he had ever been fishing in his life. More likely, he anticipated Jake's need for such a thing. With the Disney fishing rods they got for Easter, they fished in the little lake behind John's house just a month before George's death. He sat in a wheelchair wrapped in a blanket with a hat to keep his warmth in. The wind blew a March breeze through the branches of the live oak by the dock. The bugs swarmed, patience demanded we do something different, and the fishing trip ended.
Since George's death, we live with a dock in our backyard, and Jake asks to fish regularly. So with the new gear and some basic instructions on casting, one evening of practice catching a sting ray with John, Jake and I start our Saturday morning fishing from the dock.
As with all of my adventures, I don't think it through all the way. I figure Jake can cast it and pull it in. He knows how to bait the hook. All I'll have to do is get the hook out and throw the sea life back using the pliers. I saw it done with a sting ray and I didn't freak out.
With smiling anticipation, I find the pliers, the bug spray, a chair, my camera, phone, green tea and incense. Confidence reminds me that Jake visions me a super hero, saving the day, using my powers to twist minds, travel between dimensions and conquer fear. He'll grow up one day and say, my mom makes magic, casts spells, and defeats monsters.
The tidal marsh tempts us to cast half way down the dock. Cutting the frozen squid doesn't make my stomach spin. This pleases Jake. With great caution and attention, he slides the squid on both hooks. A few failed casts cause him to pause and think through the steps. He remembers to let go. He beautifully sends the line into the shallow middle. Soon, too soon, he reels it in, repeat 3 or 4 times. Then he settles and leaves it, leaning the pole on the railing.
After catching a stick and losing a hook, he recasts, landing in the deep reeds of the pluff mud. The weight and hook are stuck. At first we seriously consider Jake adventuring into the crab's domain to untangle the line from the grass. Healthy fear stops Jake. I tug and wiggle the line from this mess. Saving the day - check.
Jake, ready to abandon the bonding, suggests trying just once from the floating dock. Patience and positive energy, I insist. "Baby Jake," I tell him, "we are going to catch something." The dolphins spout agreement as they swim by. Perfection, I assure him. Life doesn't get more pleasant than this. Twisting minds - check.
He casts it for me and invites me to hold the rod. He shows me how to bring the line back a little. He instructs me never to turn the reel the wrong way. He sits on my lap and we wait. Far too quickly, I feel a tug on the line. Twice I reel it in, learning the weight of the line. The third time though, the pull is different. At times I feel the struggle a real contest. Jake wants to try, I hand him the rod. He struggles too, but pulls it in, a gross snake, a heavy, fat, slimy, grayish green sea snake's mouth stuck, bait still on the hook. I feel the swell and drop in my brain as the nerves in my forehead flow and tingle. I focus enough to seek my safe place. I hold the line, trying to gauge the movements of the eel. Jake brings the pliers. I twist and tug, trying to release the hook from his mouth. The dock floats with each passing boat's wake. The eel flops and flails.
Jake calls John, very calmly describes the scene, maybe falsely, but with certainty, declares the eel electric. My mom is holding the line. We don't know what to do he says. He hands me the phone. Recalling my words is like remembering the first time I held a pencil.
Perhaps I said, "will it hurt me? tell me what to do."
The obvious solution was to cut the line, but I didn't know what of the little metal pieces, round beads, a mini carabiner, could afford to be lost. I called John again. This time I know I said, "please come save the day." His frustration of being woken by this haphazard mini crisis traveled through the wire. "Melissa, I never thought you would be good at this," he said. "Put the eel back in the water so it doesn't die." I wanted the eel to die. But now I was sick. I could feel the motion of the still air. Steam formed around my hairline from the temperature drop in my face and neck and the reflection of my face in the water revealed the gray-green of the fish. "I'm going to vomit. I need you to not tell me I suck at this and come save the day."
Witnessing the moment, an arms length away, torn between interesting events, the eel flopping or mommy melting down, Jake quietly observed.
John urged, "If Jake wants to fish he'll have to learn how to get the eel off the hook. It's not electric, it's just nasty."
Right, I think, could he learn about getting the nasty eel off the hook when someone else is teaching him because right now, I'm out here on the moving dock with the eel flopping on a sharp hook and I might pass out if that slimy eel touches my baby boy.
"Oh..., oh no, I'm definitely going to vomit." I say.
Dimension travel - Fail. Still in a three dimensional situation, unable to teleport to safety, I say, "Jake, you can do this."
Again I hang up. Jake you can do this. I search my words, which are jumbled and missing right now, as I describe how I want him to use the pliers to unlatch the carabiner, but my words come out sounding more like metal... bead... push... tug.
Jake cut the line, the eel sluggishly left the scene with the hook attached and we found my kryptonite.
07 September 2010
Biking Day 7 et al
I almost missed my 7th day of biking. I needed achy, stuffy head, fever, chest cough, medicine today but didn't have any. After school I came home, declared every man for himself night, and went to bed (5 pm). Occasionally tossing and turning, I thought about the bike ride I didn't take today. At 9 pm, my sweet babies came in to kiss me goodnight; if I don't ride my bike now, the 30 day challenge ends I told myself. After Jake fell asleep, I drug myself down to the garage, jumped on my faithful cruiser and set out for my starlit spin. First I noticed the smell of the marsh, fresh and cool, not the mucky odor of the hot day. Then I noticed the sky, the reflection on water, and the light on in a lone dining room up the street. The breeze was better than any cold medicine money could buy. I shivered, either from fever or exhilaration. Nevertheless, I rode my bike, watered my banana peppers and remain committed to the challenge.
Last night when we got home from the mountains, Abbey, Jake and I cruised the neighborhood. It felt good to be home. The mountain bike experience this weekend clarified one very important thing for me - I'm a beach cruiser kind of girl. While I am certainly capable of an adventure on the Trek - I am not in shape for it. The two bike rides in the mountains went like this: I stayed in a cabin 2 hundred yards up a 90 degree hill from John's family cabin. I rode my bike down the hill, past John's cabin and back up the other side (in a U shape), then back down and back up the 200 yards to my cabin. My legs hurt, I struggled to breathe through my already belabored lungs (allergies) and I parked the bike next to the porch.
I hope the next 23 days of biking bring a little more distance for me.
Last night when we got home from the mountains, Abbey, Jake and I cruised the neighborhood. It felt good to be home. The mountain bike experience this weekend clarified one very important thing for me - I'm a beach cruiser kind of girl. While I am certainly capable of an adventure on the Trek - I am not in shape for it. The two bike rides in the mountains went like this: I stayed in a cabin 2 hundred yards up a 90 degree hill from John's family cabin. I rode my bike down the hill, past John's cabin and back up the other side (in a U shape), then back down and back up the 200 yards to my cabin. My legs hurt, I struggled to breathe through my already belabored lungs (allergies) and I parked the bike next to the porch.
I hope the next 23 days of biking bring a little more distance for me.
03 September 2010
Biking Days 2 & 3
My Electra Amsterdam rewarded me again on day 2. Yesterday, after lunch at the most delightful holistic soul food restaurant, Alluette's on Reid Street, the cafes namesake, Alluette, made lima bean soup with bits of spicy red pepper that infused me with a nutritious joy that made the tips of my fingers tingle. The almond toast overflowed with crispy air. The food alone would have been enough to make this place my home kitchen, but the company trumped the taste buds. Alluette's smart, witty bantering conversation entranced me. John and Aluette's brother witnessed a serious energy transfer, and I left, invigorated.
Not needing a reason to, but having one, I then rode my bike from school, up Queen Street, through Harleston Village, around Colonial Lake, across Colonial Avenue and down Tradd Street, cutting over to Gibbes, then back down the Lane to Meeting. The slow leisurely cruise centered me.
Tonight the bike called, but allergies weighed my head down. After eating pizza at Andolini's at the breezy outside table, I decided a spin around the island would have to do for day 3, and then I would rest my achy neck, but one spin is never enough. I rode around a second time, weaving through the breezy stars, my light didn't work and a car was coming down the causeway or I think I would have made three loops.
I'll leave the cruiser behind and ride the mountain bike this weekend. Whether a quick spin, or a little trail, the Trek is coming down off the wall.
Not needing a reason to, but having one, I then rode my bike from school, up Queen Street, through Harleston Village, around Colonial Lake, across Colonial Avenue and down Tradd Street, cutting over to Gibbes, then back down the Lane to Meeting. The slow leisurely cruise centered me.
Tonight the bike called, but allergies weighed my head down. After eating pizza at Andolini's at the breezy outside table, I decided a spin around the island would have to do for day 3, and then I would rest my achy neck, but one spin is never enough. I rode around a second time, weaving through the breezy stars, my light didn't work and a car was coming down the causeway or I think I would have made three loops.
I'll leave the cruiser behind and ride the mountain bike this weekend. Whether a quick spin, or a little trail, the Trek is coming down off the wall.
01 September 2010
http://30daysofbiking.com
Today I began the 30 days of biking. I biked from school to EarthFare to have lunch with John. Going down Lockwood to the Ashley River Bridge was a little stressful with the ghost bike parked at the bend @ Mason Prep. The only other tough spot was coming off the bridge where the lane splits. I needed to cross 2 lanes, and ride with traffic to the light. The way back was intense. There is no bike lane on the 4 lane bridge going back into town and the center of the bridge is a metal grate. Visions of the River Street Railroad Tracks in Savannah crash make me blue knuckle focus as I ride across. The lane that goes under the bridge on Lockwood back to the Marina is pretty cool (it might be a sidewalk, but I think it's for bikes.) The trip down Broad, over to Tradd, all the way to Meeting is a breeze, a hot and beautiful breeze.
The real challenge will be this weekend. I'll need to take my bike to the mountains and squeeze in a few minutes.
The real challenge will be this weekend. I'll need to take my bike to the mountains and squeeze in a few minutes.
28 August 2010
26 August 2010
Reduced to Stuff
I noticed first the empty porch, devoid of welcoming furniture. I walked into the charming white country cottage to its hollow foyer, lacking furnishings and breath. I understood what he meant about watching their life being dismantled, watching their stuff being divided up and sold, as if they were dead. He said nobody should have to sit back and observe while the end of their life is being managed, estate sales, auction houses, calls from siblings far away staking claims on what they want. Anything with monetary value had already been taken, sold, or spoken for. Nearly everything else was dissolved.
The house could use a coat of paint.
In the kitchen we emptied a pantry closet, throwing spices and bags of sugar away. We gathered some glass to try to sell, worthless, all of it, but not to his mother; these were her things. We looked at the blue and white plates from Cracker Barrel, the tea cups, the saucers, a full eight piece set, on display in the china cabinet, never used, maybe one plate was missing, yes, only 7 small plates, but eight of everything else, and one gravy boat. "We could sell these" she says of her plates and cups carefully displayed in the curio cabinet. "I paid $12 a plate."
Nobody will want this I thought. Nobody will want the glass platters or vases either, but I will take it all. I will send her money and tell her I sold it. Is she measuring her value by other people's desire for her stuff?
I wanted to leave. My stomach felt uneasy. I wanted to say, none of this means anything. Lets get the hell out of here and go eat. Let's celebrate life. Let's set the damn place on fire. Instead I carefully wrapped each piece of worthless glass and stacked it in the tote. I excitedly asked for a little maple basket, maybe I can put some fruit in it. I suggested she give a little candle holder to her granddaughter for her birthday tomorrow. I reveled in the new blender she gave me. The large hand painted plate will never be of much use in my kitchen, but happily, I accepted it. I couldn't finish quickly enough.
I walked around the skeleton of living space and photographed the few remaining pieces of furniture.
She was sitting in the foyer, next to the old fireplace, in a shabby wooden chair, vacant. I asked about the cabinet in the corner.
"Yes, sell it." she said.
"And what about the stuff inside it? Is that also for sale?" I inquired.
"Well" she said, "that doesn't really belong to me. It was here when we moved in." My confusion was not masked. The cabinet was hers, but the stuff in it, carefully displayed, was not. A large old book with a dark hard cover appealed to my curiosity.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Oh, that has a story!" she exclaimed. "The Atkinson's lived here." She continued. "Their grandson Tom went to Clemson, and that's a yearbook that was sent to all the families of men who died in the second world war."
"Can I open it? Can I touch the book?" I eagerly moved my hand toward the handle of the curio cabinet.
"And this other stuff?" I mused as I was reaching for the book. "Is it theirs also?"
"Oh yes, and there's more. I just didn't have the heart to get rid of it. We took care of his sister Henrietta. I offered it to the family but they didn't want any of it. So all these years I kept it on display in this cabinet."
"This is the most valuable thing you have." I said as I leafed through the pages of the old book. Loosely taped in the front was a letter to Mr. & Mrs. Atkinson from the Dean of Clemson expressing their deepest sympathy for the tragic loss of Thomas when his plane crashed while serving his country. Furthermore the letter said, this yearbook is so we never forget the price of war and we always strive for peace.
I held this book, scrolled through its pages, and thought, this is so much more than a book. This cabinet is a real reminder of humanity, the need to matter, the need to remember people and history.
The shelves had pictures, newspaper articles, and a little crystal clock. Time.
I lifted the little pile of newspaper clippings, yellow and frail. Tom Bass's obituary included very specific details of his plane crash. It ended with the details of his body being laid to rest in the family home, the very foyer I was standing in.
When I finished reading this aloud to Abbey, Grammy continued saying the story gets worse. She proceeded to tell me how the other son, TW was killed as a small child, a car backed over him. Then her dear friend Henrietta fell and broke both her hips, crippling her. She finished by saying she and Grumpy handled the affairs for her funeral when she passed.
Mr. Atkinson's obituary was included in the clippings, and pictures of Henrietta from the paper, who incidentally was very beautiful.
Name: Sgt. Thomas G. Bass, Jr.
Parents: Thomas Joseph & Lois Atkinson Bass
Date of Birth: September 14, 1920
Place of Birth: Latta, Dillon Co.SC
Date of Death: December 3, 1943
Place of Death: Salt Flats, New Mexico (plane crash)
Place of Burial: Latta Cemetery
Source and date of issue: The Dillon Herald, Dillon, SC, Thursday, December 9, 1943, page1, col. 6 and December 16, 1943, page 2, col. 3 & 4
5 years later Thomas Bass' mother died.
Name: Lois Bass
Parents: W. B. and Hernietta Gaddy Atkinson
Spouse: Thomas J. Bass (married 1917)
Date of Death: April 20, 1948
Place of Burial: Magnolia Cemetery
Source & date of issue: The Dillon Herald, Dillon, SC, Thursday, April 29, 1948, page 5, col. 2
The house could use a coat of paint.
In the kitchen we emptied a pantry closet, throwing spices and bags of sugar away. We gathered some glass to try to sell, worthless, all of it, but not to his mother; these were her things. We looked at the blue and white plates from Cracker Barrel, the tea cups, the saucers, a full eight piece set, on display in the china cabinet, never used, maybe one plate was missing, yes, only 7 small plates, but eight of everything else, and one gravy boat. "We could sell these" she says of her plates and cups carefully displayed in the curio cabinet. "I paid $12 a plate."
Nobody will want this I thought. Nobody will want the glass platters or vases either, but I will take it all. I will send her money and tell her I sold it. Is she measuring her value by other people's desire for her stuff?
I wanted to leave. My stomach felt uneasy. I wanted to say, none of this means anything. Lets get the hell out of here and go eat. Let's celebrate life. Let's set the damn place on fire. Instead I carefully wrapped each piece of worthless glass and stacked it in the tote. I excitedly asked for a little maple basket, maybe I can put some fruit in it. I suggested she give a little candle holder to her granddaughter for her birthday tomorrow. I reveled in the new blender she gave me. The large hand painted plate will never be of much use in my kitchen, but happily, I accepted it. I couldn't finish quickly enough.
I walked around the skeleton of living space and photographed the few remaining pieces of furniture.
She was sitting in the foyer, next to the old fireplace, in a shabby wooden chair, vacant. I asked about the cabinet in the corner.
"Yes, sell it." she said.
"And what about the stuff inside it? Is that also for sale?" I inquired.
"Well" she said, "that doesn't really belong to me. It was here when we moved in." My confusion was not masked. The cabinet was hers, but the stuff in it, carefully displayed, was not. A large old book with a dark hard cover appealed to my curiosity.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Oh, that has a story!" she exclaimed. "The Atkinson's lived here." She continued. "Their grandson Tom went to Clemson, and that's a yearbook that was sent to all the families of men who died in the second world war."
"Can I open it? Can I touch the book?" I eagerly moved my hand toward the handle of the curio cabinet.
"And this other stuff?" I mused as I was reaching for the book. "Is it theirs also?"
"Oh yes, and there's more. I just didn't have the heart to get rid of it. We took care of his sister Henrietta. I offered it to the family but they didn't want any of it. So all these years I kept it on display in this cabinet."
"This is the most valuable thing you have." I said as I leafed through the pages of the old book. Loosely taped in the front was a letter to Mr. & Mrs. Atkinson from the Dean of Clemson expressing their deepest sympathy for the tragic loss of Thomas when his plane crashed while serving his country. Furthermore the letter said, this yearbook is so we never forget the price of war and we always strive for peace.
I held this book, scrolled through its pages, and thought, this is so much more than a book. This cabinet is a real reminder of humanity, the need to matter, the need to remember people and history.
The shelves had pictures, newspaper articles, and a little crystal clock. Time.
I lifted the little pile of newspaper clippings, yellow and frail. Tom Bass's obituary included very specific details of his plane crash. It ended with the details of his body being laid to rest in the family home, the very foyer I was standing in.
When I finished reading this aloud to Abbey, Grammy continued saying the story gets worse. She proceeded to tell me how the other son, TW was killed as a small child, a car backed over him. Then her dear friend Henrietta fell and broke both her hips, crippling her. She finished by saying she and Grumpy handled the affairs for her funeral when she passed.
Mr. Atkinson's obituary was included in the clippings, and pictures of Henrietta from the paper, who incidentally was very beautiful.
Name: Sgt. Thomas G. Bass, Jr.
Parents: Thomas Joseph & Lois Atkinson Bass
Date of Birth: September 14, 1920
Place of Birth: Latta, Dillon Co.SC
Date of Death: December 3, 1943
Place of Death: Salt Flats, New Mexico (plane crash)
Place of Burial: Latta Cemetery
Source and date of issue: The Dillon Herald, Dillon, SC, Thursday, December 9, 1943, page1, col. 6 and December 16, 1943, page 2, col. 3 & 4
5 years later Thomas Bass' mother died.
Name: Lois Bass
Parents: W. B. and Hernietta Gaddy Atkinson
Spouse: Thomas J. Bass (married 1917)
Date of Death: April 20, 1948
Place of Burial: Magnolia Cemetery
Source & date of issue: The Dillon Herald, Dillon, SC, Thursday, April 29, 1948, page 5, col. 2
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