Recently, on one of my many, many walks, I noticed a large patch of those thorny weeds on the side of the road. Don’t tell Mississippi State that I don’t know their binomial nomenclature or they’ll revoke my degree, but their southern common name is stickers. Just the mere sight of it conjured up painful memories. 

At the risk of sounding like I’m 90, things were a lot different in my growing up days than they are now. Maybe one of the big differences is that kids played outside all day. All. Day. The children in the neighborhood formed a posse, because we were all in the same boat. We’d all been banished from our houses- forbidden to go inside, while our mothers were vacuuming in a haze of lemon Pledge and watching The Young and the Restless. In all our time outdoors in the summer, we rarely wore shoes unless the activity required them - like kickball or riding bikes. Otherwise, our toes were in the grass. 

Being outside and barefooted as much as we were, it didn’t take us long to become acquainted with this particular botanical torture. In some backyard ball competition, someone would be running from first base (aka a frisbee) to second, a flattened cardboard box, and, somewhere between the two, their foot would come down in the middle of one of those sticker weeds. The searing pain would go right through the foot and a medical timeout would always be called. The injured one would plop down in the grass and perform delicate surgery to remove all those little needles from the skin. For days after, it would leave the bottom of the foot so sore and there would be tiny, little scabs as reminders of where each thorn had drawn blood. It’s been a few decades since I’ve stepped on one of those things, but just seeing this one and pain still came up through my foot. I remembered that pain well. 

Last week, some friends and I went to a bbq place we’d been wanting to try. The location was in an old Pizza Hut building. Not those newer, modern looking Pizza Huts. This one was old school. Most of the very best bbq can be found in buildings you wonder if you should enter. We walked in and the place was stripped of most of its Pizza Hut regalia, but the trademark architecture was still there. It seemed smaller than I remembered, but I guess most places are smaller than they appear in our memories. I looked at the signature funky-shaped windows and I felt like I was transported back to a red vinyl booth bench, listening to Cyndi Lauper on the jukebox, and waiting on my personal pan pizza under the glow of a stained glass chandelier. I was sure I’d been there with some of the friends who were with me to eat bbq- except with bigger hair, Guess jeans, jelly shoes, and herringbone gold chains. You can rest assured that we were looking good. 

Y’all know I’m a sucker for nostalgia, so I tried to visualize everything as it was. Where the Miss Pac-Man game sat and the two tiers of candy machines. I probably hadn’t had my driver’s license very long when I frequented this particular location and I likely used my babysitting money to buy my personal pan. It’s been a long time since I wore jelly shoes or used quarters to play Cyndi Lauper, but being in that old place gave me all the feels. I remembered that more energetic, exciting time of exploring newfound freedom and and enjoyed visiting those happy days again in my mind. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was getting some things out of my sideboard for a family gathering. Every once in a while, I open the door where I keep my tablecloths and I see my grandmother’s red checked tablecloth in there. I don’t really use it. It holds some old tea stains and a few trails of gravy spots, but I wanted to keep it because I remember it stretched out across the table where my family gathered. It was the landing pad for many a plate of her chicken and dumplings, garden peas, cornbread, and chocolate pie. What I wouldn’t do to sit at her table one more time.

Grandmother and I enjoyed a close relationship. She’s been gone for over 20 years, but, sometimes, I still take that tablecloth in my hands and bury my nose deep in its fibers. I take a deep breath in, hoping to get just a faint hint of the smell of her home. Everyone’s home has a particular smell and hers was kind of a blend of fireplace, aged wood, and bacon. Maybe it’s all in my head, but I can still get a whiff of that place in her tablecloth. Her house has been emptied out and sold for years, but just that little hint of smell brings back memories of the love I got there at her house and thoughts of how special she was. 

The kids were here last weekend for Easter. When they woke up on Easter morning, there were Easter baskets waiting on them on the dining room table. Yes, I know they’re grown. They get more grown up versions of Easter baskets with stuff like cooking seasonings, dipping sauces, Girl Scout cookies, dark chocolate, and gift cards. Davis likes to give me hard time, but my love language is gift giving. It gives me a lot of joy and I know he would never want to suck joy out of my life. His love language is acts of service and he speaks it very well. He does love to wash my car, water my plants, and unload the groceries for me, but I’m wondering if he just went with that love language because it’s the cheapest. But, I digress. 

Anyway, I had fun putting together their baskets and arranging everything so they looked cute. That plastic grass always makes me remember the Easter baskets I made for them through the years with Hot Wheels, Barbies, chocolate bunnies, and new crayons. I’d find little strands of that synthetic grass in the carpet until Christmas. Easter traditions have a way of reminding me of all those sweet years with our kids that have passed. Chubby cheeks, smocked collars, white knee socks, Mary Jane shoes. Memories of their young years are so precious, but I suppose they always hold a smidge of self-doubt for most parents. In the quiet of an empty nest, it’s easy to wonder if you made the very best use of your time with them and if you got all the good out of it that you possibly could. Looking back at anything from the other side can usually cause a hint of regret. 

Our whole lives, we deposit memories in a deep, recessed place. It’s a quiet, out of the way spot where they’re safely kept until recalled by a smell or event or place or a host of other stimulants. I guess I’ve landed on this topic because I’ve had a lot of memories called up lately- even if most of them have been on the light side. Some memories do bring us pain. Much deeper than any sticker bush could inflict. Calling them to mind may cause us to wince, doubt, blush, or regret. Others are warm, lovely, and inviting and take us back to happy places and times. Those can leave us feeling grateful, joyful, and fulfilled. “Memory is the diary that we all carry about with us.” They tell our story. The good and the bad. They tell about God’s grace at work in us. How far we’ve come. What we’ve learned. What we’ve survived. Who we are. How we overcame. Who’s walked beside us. Where we started. How we got to this point. I hope we only let our memories take us to higher ground. Places where we can relish the sweet ones and allow the rest to be used for growth and healing. 

Hope you all have a great end of the week! We’ll talk soon!

JONI