I was at my mother-in-law's house the other day when she asked me if I wanted something. Not something to eat. Not something to drink. Just something from the collection of cherished items she's spent 88 years collecting.
Naturally, I called in an appraiser and boxed up the most valuable items.
Just kidding.
Mother-in-law: Do you want something, honey?
Me: Nope.
Mother-in-law: Are you sure? You and Glenn do so much for me.
Me: I'm sure.
And, truly, I am. I don't want any of it. I have enough of my own crap. Plus, I've been down this door prize road.
That's what I call this phase of life: the door prize phase.
Visit the home of any elderly person. It won't just be a visit. They will try to thrust a door prize into your hands as you walk back out the door.
At 15, I owned my very own set of china. It was pretty and painted with roses. I displayed it on a shelf in my room for awhile before finally packing it into a box. What does a 15-year-old need with china?
My granny gave me the china. I have no idea why. She just liked giving things away as she got older. Even the Avon lady got something from her house. But, then, who doesn't like the Avon lady? She stopped by every week so she was like family.
Granny set great store by her collections. They were her treasures. I do have a few of her things, including the shawl she wore until nearly the day she died. It's in my hope chest because what in the world am I going to do with it? It does make me smile when I find it while unearthing other things in the hope chest.
A friend told me to save flowers from my granny's funeral so that I could fashion them into a rosary. Thanks but no thanks. I don't want to remember her funeral. I'd rather remember my godchild having A Terrible Two - as my cousin called it - during the wake. It really wasn't much of A Terrible Two, but my cousin always makes us laugh, even when she's just coming up with a clever name for her child's minor meltdown.
Old people give away things because they know their time is dwindling.
After my granny went into the nursing home, I wondered what happened to the red chairs that used to sit on her porch. Those chairs were one of the few things she didn't give away. I peeked into the screened porch that now belonged to someone else. The chairs were gone.
I was thinking about those chairs the other day. I don't even want them anymore. What I loved about those chairs is that they were at my granny's house. I'd sit on one and eat her spaghetti while listening to the sound of her stories filtering out through the open door to her house. Inside were shelves filled with collectibles. I always pretended that I loved dusting them because she seemed to get a kick out of my imaginary love for dusting. She also hated to dust.
That's what I want: not the chair, but that moment in time when my granny lived in a small house at the end of road in Gibson. My nanny lived across the street in a house with a long counter and bar stools that my mother and aunts would perch on while they drank coffee. We'd walk to the store down the street and get an RC cola and gingerbread planks frosted with pink icing. One of Granny's friends usually walked with us, and I'd look at them in amazement while they talked in Cajun French. Granny would notice the look on my face and start laughing. That's what I want.
I always decline the door prize. Until it's a time machine, I don't want it.
