Broken Bit

Digging for memories.

This weekend I satisfied my inner archeologist. With spring slipping through the door someone left open in winter, it was the perfect day to go out into the yard and begin the dig.

Of course it never starts out as an archaeological dig. It starts out as a "let's pick up the yard" thing. A "let's cut back all those weedy, dead plants" thing. A "they're going to rezone our house as a junk yard if we don't get this under control" thing.

Sierra was on hand to help, since she's always eager to earn some cash by picking up endless numbers of plastic items so she can then go out and buy additional plastic items. I've finally come to accept this as an endless cycle.

Someday, when we are long gone, actual archaeologists may dig in our yard and try to figure out if all these brightly colored items are toys or religious cult icons. I'd say in some cases the line is blurred, especially when I try to get them in the trashcan. You've never seen someone move so fast until you try to toss an orphaned doll shoe into the trashcan.

I never knew Mireya's shoes would smoke like that.

So this weekend, I was a jr. archeologist, uncovering our brief family history. I found, under leaves and branches, a worn watercolor paintbrush, and next to it a jar still stained with blue paint.

This was from the day we painted the dogs various colors, turning them into something between pop art and doggie warriors.

Or was it from the day we painted outlines of ourselves on old blueprint paper?

Or maybe it was the day Sierra painted her entire arm blue, which remained lightly blue even after a bath.

Next I find a broken bit of plastic from a bucket of gum. This was from my uncle, who is particularly fond of this brand of chewing gum. We'd taken the empty bucket and turned it into a carrier for all kinds of things - rocks, dog food, plastic toys.

I find a tiny teal bookcase, at least I think it's a bookcase, belonging to Barbie, or Polly, or Little Miss Knock-off from the Dollar Store.

Part of me resists tossing these broken, misplaced bits. Even the empty jar is loaded with memories, crammed with these days of children, messy yards, and blue dogs.

But it is a mess, so away they go. Instead I resolve to go inside and write it all down.

Lest I forget.