“The ring of a bell”

I stood before two of three tall basement cabinets and took a deep breath. I opened each door and planned my task at hand.

My late husband assembled the units years ago to store bulky items used to serve beverages and food to our lavender farm guests.

I’ve used two cabinets to keep orphans left by our deceased daughter and parents. The shelves also hold a fair share of belongings left by my surviving, grown daughters.

The third cabinet contains the beautiful, white Christmas nativity my late mother-in-law gifted me in celebration throughout a generation of Christmases.

There’s also her darling, flirtatious Santa Claus with a wink and round belly. And a host of reindeer with golden hooves and antlers.

As our firstborn grew, we unwrapped Grandma Rosie’s hand-crafted Jack-o-lantern. Then, a two-foot ceramic bunny with one floppy ear that Gramma named Harvey.

She loved the false eyelashes she glued above Harvey’s eyes. Gramma would fuss that she couldn’t master painting eyes on her creations.

However, Harvey’s eyes seemed perfect to me.

I’m thankful to have inherited him.

Meanwhile, our family grew to three girls. Gramma Rosie gifted them sophisticated toys such as the Fisher Price school house and hospital with their little, round people with no legs and arms.

As a mother, this bothered me. Furthermore, that the people had no eyes, mouth, or ears.

Yet, Gramma Rosie never failed to wrap a big box of new, holiday or birthday ceramics, including ducks and chicks for the Easter season.

In this manner, I filled Mel’s three cabinets from top to bottom.

That’s what happens when you anticipate grandchildren in your future.

Furthermore, in faith of another perpetuating generation, I used the bottom shelf of one cabinet for their Fisher Price schoolhouse, Lincoln Logs, and building blocks.

I surveyed the contents of each cabinet and chose what I thought appropriate for the Dryden Methodist rummage sale, and gathered five bins.

At last, I reached the bottom shelf of the last cabinet for the fifth bin.

When I lifted the Fisher Price school house, the bell atop the roof rang as if pleading, with me.

Yet, I remained firm to contribute what was left behind in hopes someone would buy the schoolhouse and give it a new life and home.

On my drive north to Dryden Methodist Church, the bell rang again, as if asking to stay with me.

Yet, I remained resolute.

That evening, my middle daughter called from California and asked how was my day.

“I did something very difficult,” I replied, and relayed the story of the ringing school bell.

“Oh no, Mom! You can’t give away our Fisher Price schoolhouse!”

“Don’t you want it to go to a loving family?” I asked.

“Yes! Can’t you hold onto it until Amulen marries and has a child?”

Dear Reader, I plan to retrieve our Fisher Price schoolhouse from the church this Wednesday.

I will hold Grandma Rosie’s gift with newborn hope to live long enough to hear the bell ring for another generation.

Contact Iris at irisfarmletters@gmail.com