My Flower Memories

When I was a freshman in high school I saw dried flowers hung on a wall at a friend’s house.  Her mom had dried them and was keeping them around for decoration.  I was captivated.  I wanted to dry my own flowers and keep them for a bit of sunshine on a sad day.

So I started drying all of the flowers I received on my birthday, from various celebrations, from shows at school, on Valentine’s Day…any flowers I received were dried and placed on the bookshelf in my room. 

Eventually they started to pile up, but I enjoyed their preserved presence too much to throw them out.  At the same time some of the memories from certain bouquets were like a thorn in my side.

Remember whom those were from?  Remember what happened after that?  Remember what was said to you?  Remember this, remember that…. Remember? 

It took a strong emotional force to finally make me get rid of flowers after a certain point.  Letting bouquets of flowers sit in my room for months provided beauty, but also hurt at the same time.  In a way they were just piles of break ups, dates gone wrong, and dances that ended in tears. 

Looking back I wonder why in the world did I keep some of them around so long?  

I should have thrown them out the moment it was over.  But I didn’t because I cared too much about when everything was going right, and I remembered too easily all the times that went well.  At one point those flowers were everything, and then just around the corner they weren’t anything but I didn’t know how to get rid of them.

I especially remember throwing out a certain bouquet.  I had told myself many times, get rid of it already, you don’t need those flowers anymore, but I never walked over to pick it up and carry it to the trash can.  I don’t remember exactly what happened that made me march into my room one day and purposefully carry them to the dumpster in the garage, but I did.  And once I threw them out, I felt lighter.

If I remember correctly I ended up throwing out the rest of the bouquets that had been resting on my bookshelf as well.  I wanted a clean slate, I needed to start over and collect new memories, memories that would hopefully be happier and easier to look at. 

However, the cleaning process happened again about a year later and I once more cleared away all the flowers I had collected.  I didn’t want to keep them around anymore.  That time it was a little easier though, because I was getting ready to leave for college and start a completely new life.  I wasn’t going to leave a bunch of dead flowers around that wouldn’t mean anything to my sister. 

Now that I’m here I’ve started drying flowers again and hanging them from my dorm room ceiling by the window.  There’s not really a better place to keep them.

I have a bouquet from Pike Place, a bouquet from when my Dad visited me and took me out to the best dinner of my life (which you can read about in the blog post Eating Happiness) and a bouquet of roses from when my boyfriend and I made our relationship official. 

 I am fond of them, and I am fond of their memories.  And looking back I was fond of all my other flowers at one point too.  Which makes me realize, no matter what flowers I end up throwing out I’m sure I’ll get new ones that mean just as much, maybe even more.

I just hope I won’t be parting with the ones I have anytime soon.  

A Really Good Liar

For the past 5 weeks (maybe a little more) I had been lying to everyone on my Dad’s side of the family, and most people on my Mom’s side of the family. 

I was sitting in Sea-Tac airport, getting ready to board a flight to Los Angeles, and my Grandma from Ohio was texting me about Thanksgiving and asking about where I was going.

I texted, I’ll be at a friends house.  I leave this afternoon, without a second thought.  I still had to be careful.  I had kept my secret this long and it wasn’t going to be unveiled until I was standing on my cousins’ doorstep. 

All my friends from school knew.  I had to explain why I wasn’t going back to Colorado, but to California instead.

I had done a pretty good job of texting my cousin and telling her how much I was going to miss her, and I occasionally posted the same message on her Facebook wall.  I did it to my brothers as well, telling them how jealous I was that they got to be in Cali and I didn’t. 

I did more than just lie.  I was downright conniving. 

I could hardly contain my excitement as I boarded the flight, and I texted my Dad, “I’m leaving school now, have a great Thanksgiving!”  My Dad and Mom actually knew I was coming, so those were simply code words just in case someone over read the text on accident. 

I had the very last seat on the plane.  20D and I ended up sitting next to a couple with a six year old girl across the isle, and a 2 year old ginger-haired boy that they were keeping on their laps. 

Most people would have mentally prepared themselves for disaster, but I hadn’t interacted with kids nearly at all since I left for school.  I was more than thrilled to talk to him and I eventually got to hold him for a while. 

Eventually, he got worn out and fell asleep, which allowed me time to read for school.  I read more in those 2 hours than I would have read in 6 had I still been in my dorm. 

After I landed I called my Dad, made my way to the baggage claim, and then out the sliding doors to stand on the gray sidewalk of terminal three.  I had a long sleeve gray shirt on, a Rockies baseball cap, and jeans.  It was 72 degrees out and I felt like I was suffocating.  

When my parents pulled up in a mini van a huge grin spread across my face, and when my Mom got out I pulled her into a hug and didn’t want to let go.  I had seen my Dad a few weeks earlier in Seattle, but I hadn’t seen my Mom in months. 

My Dad threw my suitcase in the back and we were off.  I had a plan about how I wanted to surprise everyone, but since it didn’t happen that way I won’t bother to explain it. 

I’m not one that normally asks, “Are we there yet?”  I tend to leave that job to my six-year-old cousin, and youngest brother, but I recall asking it at least twice on the ride to my cousins’ house, which was pointless since I knew almost exactly where we were the whole ride back. 

As we pulled up to the side of the house I slid down between the seats just in case someone was outside, and my parents went into the house to scope out where everyone was. 

My Dad texted me:  Everyone is all over the place.  Come ring the doorbell. 

I opened the van door, and climbed out feeling like a stowaway or criminal.  I walked across the street as casually as I could and walked up to the front door.  Then I rang the doorbell, which was an odd feeling because whenever I had arrived in the past it had always been wide open to greet me.

My dear cousin Mackenzie answered the door (I had been pulling her leg the most) and when she saw me she said, “What?” and backed away from the door.  I yelled, “Surprise!” and then we were laughing and hugging and my youngest cousin Ruby joined in on the hugs as well. 

My brother Robert was standing there, just staring at me.  I’m pretty sure he went into shock and remained in that state the rest of the night.  He told me later he had been super confused because he was absolutely certain I should still be in Washington and not in California.  That’s how good I had been at lying.  It took him a while to adjust to the fact I was actually present.

After surprising those three, I walked out back to where the pool is.  Sure enough, Mark and Xander, the inspirable family members, were floating on inner tubes in the pool.  I was walking toward them and they were looking at me when I got tackled by my sister, and engulfed in a hug.  Then the boys were yelling and climbing out of the pool and joining in and soaking everyone. 

I couldn’t believe it was finally happening!

Next I surprised my Grandparents, who were next door in the guesthouse practicing for the “Battle of the Bands” which ended up not happening because I showed up.  My Grandpa was the first to realize that it was me standing there and not one of the other grandchildren.  He started saying, “Oh my goodness!” while my Grandma continued to bang on the drums.  When she finally saw me she covered her mouth and got up to come hug me.   I definitely can’t count on all my fingers and toes how many hugs and kisses I received within the first 10 minutes of arriving.

I still had to surprise my Aunt and Uncle, and within a few minutes my Uncle came back to the house after a run.  I hid behind a wall and jumped out as he rounded the corner. 

“Elisabeth!  Wow!  Don’t hug me!”  He was pretty sweaty after his run, but I proceeded to hug him anyway. 

Surprising my Aunt was possibly the funniest.  Everyone sat down around the dinner table, and I had my back to the entry of the kitchen.  My brothers, sister, and cousins then began improvising a discussion about what would happen during “Battle of the Bands” later that night.  As they were talking my Aunt walked into the kitchen. 

“Hey guys!” she said as she placed some groceries on the counter.

Everyone responded through a mixed chorus of hellos and continued to talk, and snicker.  In the reflection of the French doors by the table I caught my Aunt leaning toward my Uncle and asking, “Who is that at the table?” 

I started laughing, I couldn’t help it, and I turned around to reveal myself.  My Aunt was definitely surprised, and both of us had tears in our eyes as we hugged.  At that point everyone was screaming and laughing and some of us were crying.  My sister had been crying throughout the whole thing, so I made sure to give her another hug.

Everyone began to ask me about all of the texts and Facebook posts and how long have you known you were going to do this again?  How did you manage to hide it from us? 

“Guys!”  I laughed, “I guess I’m just a really good liar.”  

The Bathroom Wallpaper

I went on a run with one of the girls from my floor this morning and after we returned we decided to stretch before we went inside.  We were talking about our families and telling different stories of the pranks we’ve played on them.

It made me realize that there was one I would really love to share.

It involves my beloved sister Rebecca, who is quite a few years younger than me, and one of my best friends Aubrey who is now hundreds of miles from me.   

My Mom decided when I was in 5^th or 6^th grade that she wanted to redo what we called the “kids” bathroom.  The walls were coated with ugly wallpaper that must have dated back to the 80s.  I can still remember what it looked like, with purple flowers and blue patterns that vertically lined the wall. 

Aubrey and I were in charge of peeling all of the old wallpaper off of the wall so that my Mom could prepare it for the new paint.  My middle brother joined in on the fun and before my Mom said “Go!” we were stripping it off the wall.  It had already been peeling and the task wasn’t too hard. 

However, there were certain spots that wouldn’t budge.  I don’t remember if I went to grab forks from the silverware drawer or if my Mom provided them for us, but I remember having the silver utensil in my hand and using it to scrape pieces off the wall.

10 to 15 minutes into the task my younger sister, who must have been about 6 years old at the time, wandered down the hallway into the bathroom to see what we were doing.

She stood in the doorway in her blue floral patterned dress (she was always wearing a dress during that era of her life), and she asked, “What are you guys doing.”

Aubrey casually answered, “Taking this off because your Mom wanted us to.”

Rebecca looked as if she didn’t believe us.

I can imagine the mischievous grin that spread over my face, and Aubrey’s as well, when we decided to step it up a level and see how far we could push things.

In a sarcastic and impish tone that should have been unknown to an 11 year old I said, “No Rebecca, actually we are destroying the bathroom wallpaper because we feel like it.”

Aubrey added, “Yeah.”

Before either of us knew what was happening, huge tears began to swell in Rebecca’s brown eyes and spill over onto the rest of her face.  She ran back down the hall and down the stairs.

Aubrey and I on the other hand couldn’t stop laughing.  We never stopped to contemplate that we might get in trouble for a teasing lie. 

However, within minutes my Mom marched up the stairs, took our forks away and sent Aubrey home.  Rebecca wasn’t the only one crying after that. 

We tried to tell my Mom, “But we told her the truth before!  We were just teasing!”  She wouldn’t hear any of it and after Aubrey was out the door, I was sent to my room.

I don’t remember who took off the rest of the wallpaper after that.  I assume it was my Mom, but the rest of the details about the bathroom being redone have escaped my memory completely. 

I should have been sorry, but I don’t think I really was. 

In fact, when I called Aubrey to discuss the story with her before I wrote about it we were both laughing all over again. 

Good times.  

A Letter & Forgotten Sticky Notes

My sister recently wrote me the most darling letter (via snail mail), of which I’ve decided to share an excerpt of.  I asked her permission of course, and I waited until she had received my reply so that I didn’t spoil it by posting my part of the letter on my blog.  She asked me a peculiar question, but also a perfectly understandable one.  I used to write random notes to myself on sticky notes and put them on the mirror and I didn’t clean them off before I left.  There was one in particular she was curious about. 

Dear Elisabeth,

...In our room, the spoons are still up (I like how they look), everything on the top shelf is just as it was when you left, and my favorite of all are the picture, sticky notes and etc. on the mirror.  Right after you left, I thought of taking them down but decided to leave them up a little longer.  Well, they are still up, and every time one of my friends walks into the room and sees the “I will never resort to looking like a piece of cake” sticky note, they ask me where it is from and what does it mean.  So I am asking you now, where is it from and what does it mean?  In the morning I when I wake up and get ready, I look at all of those sticky notes and pictures and I love what story each of them tells...

Dear Rebecca,

...I’m glad that you left the sticky notes on the mirror—it makes me feel like I left a little there to remind you about how much I love you.  I forgot about the “cake” note and I laughed so hard when you wrote about that in your letter.  Here is what it means: I promised myself I would never look like I piece of cake, because if I look like a piece of cake it means I am wearing too much makeup.  Cake is perfectly smoothed over and wonderfully decorated, but not all good-looking cakes taste good.  What truly matters is on the inside, not the outside.  Thus, “I will never resort to looking like a piece of cake,” means that I won’t let insecurity get the best of me.  I’ve discovered here that people recognize the difference between outward beauty and inward beauty.  And when you have inward beauty, it allows you to be beautiful in every way.  You, my dear, are beautiful in every way, and don’t ever resort to looking like a piece of cake.  Not that you will, but I’m glad that you have that reminder on the mirror for you to always see.  I miss you and your wonderful heart and, as much as we might have been grumpy with each other on occasion, having a roommate is not the same as having you...

I can’t express how glad I am that she wrote me a letter.  Nothing can beat a correspondence via snail mail when the words are thought out, placed, and have time settle in as they are mailed to their destination.  I can’t wait to get a letter back.

I love you little sister.

Fall & Pumpkin Seeds

There’s nothing better than getting a care package from people you love.  Especially when those people are my family and my Mom puts in extra effort to send me an entire batch of cookies—they may not have arrived entirely intact, but they tasted exactly like home and that was all that mattered. 

My sister sent me a little care package of her own, which consisted of the mail I’ve received since I left, pumpkin seeds, and a letter. 

My family carved pumpkins for the first time in years this fall, and I wasn’t there.  It’s always been something I’ve loved to do, but it hasn’t happened in a while.  So of course they did it the year I left.  (Not on purpose, it just worked out that way.)

I had one request.  That my sister would send me the pumpkin seeds once she cooked them.  She told me she would, but I didn’t think it would actually happen.  However, to my pleasant surprise, I received the notification yesterday that I received a care package.  Once I retrieved it and opened it I discovered an entire Ziploc bag of home-baked pumpkin seeds.  In my sister’s handwriting there was a note attached that said, “The guts of Mr. Pumpkin fried and salted.”  I couldn’t help but smile.  My sister managed to represent her personality perfectly on a hot pink sticky-note. 

For me, pumpkin seeds are one of the most prominent signs that it is finally fall.  Granted, the leaves will turn, the air will possess a distinct chill, and the world will prepare for winter, but I can’t accept that fall has arrived until I have pumpkin seeds in my hand. 

There is a distinct taste associated with pumpkin seeds that I can’t entirely place.  Mostly it’s the taste of earth.  As if I can taste how the leaves feel when they are falling from the trees.  I don’t know how to describe the taste of fall, but the closest thing would be pumpkin seeds. 

Anything pumpkin has a distinct fall flavor, but I’ve always reserved pumpkin pie for Thanksgiving.  I can’t make myself eat it even though it’s been served in Gwinn several times in the past few weeks. 

I’ve decided I’m picky about food that way.  I’ll eat anything and everything (except bubble tea, which makes me want to puke).  I guess I tend to reserve certain foods for certain seasons. 

Currently I am content eating pumpkin seeds, drinking coffee, and listening to Death Cab for Cutie as I sit by my window. 

It’s a perfect Seattle day.