This year, spring cleaning feels more like spring clearing as I prepare to move into a much smaller home this summer. The downside of downsizing is sorting through generations of things, from files to furniture. It’s heavy lifting, physically and emotionally. I cannot take much with me, but I can move memories.
This morning, I found my maternal great-great grandmother’s enameled, sewing thimble, a tiny treasure! I sneezed when I noticed her initials: CDC. Caroline Denning Cole, 1845-1929, was probably the Center for Disease Control then—at least in her family. They survived the 1918 Flu Pandemic, the year my mother was born.
As I write, a picture of my grandmother, Mabel Wilson Vrooman, Caroline’s granddaughter, stands proudly beside my desk in her cap and gown. She graduated from Wellesley College in 1909. I still have her cap and gown, which I wore when I graduated from Skidmore in 1972. Mabel’s photograph is next to one of me with Barack Obama. There is a lot of herstory here.
Small things are often the most salient. The single, sterling spoon crafted by the same person who made a paper-face banjo clock in Burlington, Vermont in 1820 suggests that Vermonters have long been moonlighters. The letter from the doctor who delivered my father—at home—explains why there are no wedding pictures of my paternal grandparents’ wedding, despite a huge collection of old family photos. Apparently, Dad had to prove his legitimacy when he joined the Coast Guard during World War II. Maybe that’s why my mother referred to her in-laws as the OTHER side of the family!
My parents’ wedding photographs include a picture of my mother sitting at the dressing table that is now in my guestroom. The furniture set was mine as a child, as it was hers. It was painted for her, so it goes back to the nineteenth century. Imagine how many dreams were dreamt in those twin beds. I wonder how many came true.
About forty years ago, I had a dream. I was walking through the woods on a sunny, late spring morning. There were only traces of an old path in the shade of the forest. I thought of turning around but felt called to continue. I eventually came to a sunlit clearing with an old, one-room schoolhouse. The door was open, and I entered cautiously. The teacher was waiting for me. She was an older version of me!
I don’t recall what we talked about in the dream. I only remember walking back easily and waking with a deep sense of serenity.
The path to the schoolhouse feels familiar now—and a lot shorter. My feet are worse for the wear, but my heart is much wiser.
My spring clearing invites compassion, courage, and clarity for the path ahead.