A month that is supposed to bring awareness of adoption and promote adoption for children whose parents have lost their parental rights. A month when those children who want to be adopted are highlighted. Right off the bat I ran into tweets about celebrating adoption month by people who had recently adopted newborns, pretty much slapping each other on the back in celebration of reducing abortions. SMDH
So, today, I’m here to talk about memories from my childhood that keep popping into my mind in a world that is still all topsy-turvy. Do feel free to add your stories in the comments, if you’re so inclined.
Yesterday, I pulled the glass gallon jar of sugar from the cupboard and left it on the counter to remind me to make a batch of sugar water for the hummingbirds this morning. This morning, I saw the glass jar sitting there and while I was having my morning coffee, my mind wandered down memory. A memory that took me back to going with Dad to the farm we got our milk from, we went every week and would come home with 2 gallons of milk in glass gallon jars. Mom would let the milk sit overnight, and then, carefully remove the cream from the top, let it sit some more and skim the less rich cream for the morning mush, leaving the rest of the milk for drinking and cooking.
But that wasn’t the only reason we went to the farm every week, we’d go so Dad could check in on them, because they were not just who we got our milk from, they were long-time family friends, and also, his patients. They seldom left the farm by then, but somehow they’d managed to keep that one old cow to live out her life there, how she kept producing as long as she did I have no idea, nor how they managed milking her, but they did. Dad checked in on them every week, even after we had to get milk elsewhere because the cow had finally run dry, he’d go check on the old man and friend who was suffering the ill-effects of living too long after working himself into the ground to bring his family up during the Depression. I remember the day Dad told him he needed to come into town because he needed his big toe off, and then, how Dad and his friend let me stand in the doorway and watch Dad do what needed to be done to give his friend more time on this earth. It didn’t do me any harm, it was also a different world back then when seeing the hard was part and parcel of growing up.
But getting back to the glass jars that brought the story above to mind. When I was newly married I worked in a restaurant, a restaurant that got product in those glass gallon jars, jars that often ended up in the garbage. An era when plastic was what everyone wanted to store things in, so I ended up taking home a half-dozen of those beautiful glass gallon jars. I packed up the tupperware containers I’d received as wedding presents, and put all the dry goods into those big glass jars, decades later, I still prefer my glass jars to anything else, there’s also something comforting in the continuity of reusing, recycling and living simple.
Take care of yourself this coming month of sappy stories, annoying “we saved them stories” that don’t see the complexity in play, nor the reality that feelings aren’t static and will evolve with knowledge and lived experiences, the all to willing adoptive parents and friends of an adoptive parent to overshare an adoptees deeply personal story. And for any adoptive parent reading, don’t be like those who do tell-all about their child’s private story, instead protect your child’s story, it’s their story.
Thanks for listening and for not freaking out over my sentence structure and punctuation, and instead just hear what I’m saying and appreciate the fact that I regained what I have – I’ve made peace with what is, thankful you folks are here. Cheers