Winter: The Baggage We Carry

This is the final post of a 4-part series called “The Happenings on Highway 5.”

I’ve been sharing memories of growing up in a haunted farmhouse nestled between a catfish swamp, a soybean field, a sway-backed barn, and Indiana State Highway 5. They are happy, life-shaping memories, but when I decided to blog, I pledged to tell the truth. And the truth is that many of my childhood memories are unhappy due to alcoholism and its oft times companion—poverty. My childhood included many dark and shadowy days, but those filled with light were exceptionally luminous…like one Indiana Christmas.

That winter was harsh. Snow snakes curled around ankles, coiled up tree trunks, and brushed against the foundation of our rickety house. Inside, the windows rattled. Rags were stuffed along the sills to stop the frigid air from encroaching where the oil stove worked overtime. When Dad was at work, Mom thumbed through the Sears and Roebuck catalog with a worried look on her face. We were told that Santa was having a bad year; not to expect much for Christmas.

We heard the words, but in our hearts, we kids knew Santa wouldn’t forget us. In fact, he sent us an early gift. A few days before Christmas, our grandparents from Wisconsin visited. Things were looking up, especially since Mom and Dad didn’t argue so much with Grampa and Grama in the house.

At long last, Christmas morning arrived. Filled with hope, we trampled down the stairs, greeted by the homey smell of percolating coffee and the sight of gifts, not a lot, but enough, beneath the tree. I shamefully cannot remember what anyone else in the family received that year, but I remember the single gift my sister and I each received: a set of psychedelic luggage.

Our hands glided over the sleek surfaces. We wiggled the handles and oohed and ahhed over the colors. Our cases didn’t even need wrapping, they were so swirly and bright.

“Why don’t you open them?” said Grama.

Snap! Snap! The lids popped up revealing beautifully wrapped presents ranging from knee socks to Kodak Instamatic cameras. Unlike Pandora’s box filled with pestilence, ours were filled not only with gifts, but with the promise of summertime adventures Up North in Wisconsin with our grandparents.

The gifts that filled our luggage are long gone, and the few remaining photos we took with our cameras faded. It’s a miracle that three of the four pieces have survived, tattered as they may be. But what hasn’t tattered, or faded, or been lost are the memories of a childhood spent partially in the dark and partially in the light. Our minds, it seems to me, are like suitcases and inside we carry the baggage of our lives. The trick is to let the promising gifts rise to the forefront, to cherish the good memories and to learn and grow from the bad. Although the sparrow, the hobo, the butterflies, my grandparents and parents are all gone, the sparrow’s song, the hobo’s words, the butterflies’ wings, and the suitcases filled with love live in my heart.

This holiday season, unpack a beautiful memory from your suitcase and allow it to carry you through the next day, the next week, the next month, and all the way through this dawning new year.

Happy 2020.