The Millbrea Fine Wine and Arts Festival is coming up. It always gets scheduled for Labor Day Weekend. I'm planning to go.
I've been going to this festival since 1978. I love going to this festival. It brings back memories that pull at my heart strings and remind me of how precious and fleeting life's special moments can be.
A few of years ago, after my business partner passed away back in August of 2008, I climbed in my car and headed for Millbrea. I felt lost. My then pillar of strength was gone. I hadn't gone to the festival since my mother passed away in 2003 -- my first pillar of strength -- and on that day, a week after my partner left this world, I had to go. Something there was calling me.
I arrived from Fog City to a fairly warm sunny day, found my parking spot, and walked toward the crowds that were milling up and down Broadway Avenue. There, I was suddenly transported to another time when life seemed brighter. I saw myself walking in costume with my girlfriends toward the performance stage area, anxiously anticipating the moment in the schedule when we would be announced as the Winds of Araby to curious bystanders eager to see how belly dance was done. And did we wow the crowds with our dances those years. I found I was smiling to myself.
I then flew to a time when I walked down the street and laughed and joked with my sister, Mary, about all the little strange artsy things that were for sale. Mary and I had a language that only we knew how to understand. It was our special language. It's that way between sisters as close as I thought we were.
More thoughts and memories began to flood my mind. Time took on a personality of its own. Empty engraved stem glasses perched on a counter top caught my attention, and there was another memory. A roll of tickets and a sign next to it shot up another memory. A set of tables and chairs next to the counter -- another memory. I was inside a memory vortex.
When I had gone to these festivals years back, a dollar filled up a glass -- for which I had also paid a dollar -- with the wine that was being advertised on that counter. But Mary and I would buy the counter deal -- six tickets for a five spot. We would laugh and fill our glasses with wine and stagger our way through the crowds, laughing and joking. I saw her face that day as clearly as if she were there. I remember suddenly feeling a longing. I missed her.
But the thing I remembered the most that day back in 2008 was the vision of my mother as she ambled in and out of those artists' booths. A white haired old woman with deep wrinkles in her face, I would watch her as she picked up and scrutinized the simplest handmade items; and I wondered back then why she did that. Eventually, she would collect at least three of these useless dust catcher decorations, pay for them; and, then later, seated at a table close to the wine booth at the end of the festival day over the last glass of wine, she would hand one to me and one to Mary. The third, she would keep for herself. "It's for the Christmas tree." she would say smiling.
As I remembered the details of this memory while walking down Broadway Avenue that 2008 festival day, my gaze dropped on an elderly woman who from the back may have been my mother until she turned around. And from the vantage point, I imagined my mother scrutinizing some artsy item as she did when I was with her. I smiled and felt a longing. I missed her.
And then it dawned on me....
My mother wasn't buying some useless handmade artsy decoration dust catcher that would eventually take its place on a Christmas tree; she was buying a representation to a memory. She was saving her joy of that moment with her two daughters and placing that joy inside the casings of, what I had thought then, a piece of junk but, what I realized that day, the shell to a beautiful day of togetherness.
At that moment back in 2008 when I had this revelation, I sat down, turned my back to the crowds and wept silently. My mother had been giving me priceless tokens of a day of memories bundled up inside glasses of wine and warm smiles for years, and I hadn't even known it...until that day.
So, on that day, as I made my way back up the street and before heading to my car, I bought a useless handmade decoration. But it wasn't just from anyone. It came from the hands of the Senior Citizens home. It was a tribute to my mother.
This hand made twirly plastic thing with beads and ribbon now hangs in the middle of my apartment as a reminder of that miraculous day where I learned that memories can be seen as precious and priceless decorations within one's life and that these little trinkets are a representation of that time and of a place.
I have since hauled out many of these trinkets that my mother had bought on those excursions and that I had mindlessly stowed away. These little dust catchers hold the soul to my mother's intentions for buying and giving them to me. They bring joy and peace
to my life during an otherwise cloudy day whenever I look upon them from
time to time. In each one of them I see my mother's warm smile and a day filled with fun and laughter with her and with my sister, Mary.
These are not just dust catchers; these are memory catchers.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Paper Chase
Every Friday, I wake up, get out of bed, and have my two and a half cups of coffee. And every Friday, I hop into my car and go shopping. I own a restaurant and Friday is restaurant-shopping day.
My first stop is at Costco. After stuffing my shopping cart with the items I need, referring to a piece of paper with a list of these items including coffee, I go through checkout. Since I own my own business, I am presented a piece of paper that I sign so that I don't have to give the tax man extra pieces of paper. I'm then presented with another piece of paper that tells me I need to give the checker my piece of paper with my signature on it promising that I can afford to take home all of these items and that Costco will eventually get enough pieces of paper to cover the worth of these items; which, by the way, seem to be worth more today than they were worth last Friday. We exchange pieces of paper and I walk out with my items, but not until the door guard puts his/her mark on the piece of paper I was handed by the checker. Now I have a piece of paper with a pink squiggle on it or blue or green, which I stuff into my back pocket.
My next stop is a grocery store in South San Francisco called Manila Oriental Market. Now, this is where it gets interesting. After loading up my cart with more items from the same piece of paper I took with me to Costco listing my items, I go through checkout. Manila Oriental Market has an incentive for shoppers to buy more than they probably need. For every ten dollars worth of non-sale items, they will give you a one dollar paper coupon good at their on-site deli. So, as I go through checkout, I get a piece of paper that tells me how many pieces of paper I need to give them for the piece of paper they just gave me. As we exchange pieces of paper, I take my piece of paper and direct my shopping cart toward the customer counter checker. She will give me one piece of paper for every ten pieces of paper I just gave to the first checker, good at their deli.
As I hand over my piece of paper to the customer counter checker, she checks off my sale items, takes the difference of that sum from the total sum and gives me back several pieces of paper in exchange for having shopped at that store, good at their deli. I then give her two more pieces of paper and ask her to give me two lottery tickets. So, in exchange for my two pieces of paper, she gives me two pieces of paper which could -- or could not -- potentially land me a million or more pieces of paper. I then step aside and take my one-week old pieces of paper, purchased the Friday before, and scan them for potential millions of pieces of paper. I know it's a futile activity because more often than not, those two pieces of paper will end up in the round file with all the other pieces of paper.
I ditch last Friday's pieces of paper, take my five or more other pieces of paper and head for the deli. I then file my two new pieces of paper good until next Friday in my purse, and stuff the marked up checkout piece of paper in my back pocket along with the piece of paper I got from Costco with the door guard's color-of-the-day mark.
As I walk out of the market with a bag full of Chinese food which I got from the pieces of paper that the checkout person gave to me after handing her the initial checkout piece of paper, I head for my car, and I ponder this thought....
The world really does run on agreement. Money, in and of itself, has no value. Paper coupons, in and of themselves, have no value. Lotto tickets, in and of themselves have no value. They are just stupid pieces of paper. We only give them value as part of a global agreement. So much paper is exchanged under agreement.
I wish I had more pieces of paper hidden under my mattress or in my bank account. I know that these kinds of pieces of paper won't buy me love, but they will buy me peace. And heaven only knows how much peace I wish I had now. In fact, the whole world is in much need of peace.
But here's the flip side......
Friendship and trust can "buy" peace just as pieces of paper can, but the cost is not measured in the worth of these pieces of paper, and the return of this investment is always priceless. Paper may or may not come into that equation, but just the word -- and not pieces of paper -- of one person can build or demolish a nation, a friendship, someone's trust. Too much emphasis is placed on worthless pieces of paper and not enough on the word of someone. Under today's global agreement, we have lost the human element of one's word and compassion, and have replaced it with pieces of paper -- pieces of paper, which many of us hoard under our mattress or in a bank because of the global thought that money can buy you anything.
As I walk out of Safeway -- my last stop, and head for my car, having just visited my bank and having just gotten a bunch of pieces of paper that will make my business transactions easier for the evening, I notice a single, solitary person in the midst of many. That person has a cup in front of himself. "Can you spare some change?" [Translation: Can you spare some of your pieces of paper? I need some and don't have any to visit the deli or throw into the round file.] My first inclination is to walk past that person. I see it happen every time. But, I think to myself; I have friends who have been there for me with pieces of paper when I didn't have any, and who have brought peace to my life with their word and their trust and their compassion, and who have not judged me or demanded anything in return for their pieces of paper. And because of them sometime before today, tonight I will have more pieces of paper by the end of the evening's business.
I reach inside my purse and I give this person some of my pieces of paper; in fact many of them. I have enough pieces of paper to keep me afloat -- under my mattress and in the bank. At least, for a small interim, I know I will have given this person some degree of peace. Maybe it will help him toward his next meal. Maybe it will buy him his next fifth of whiskey. Maybe it will get him his next fix and I may not see him tomorrow. But I don't know that. And I'm not going to judge his predicament. I will just know that I will have brought him some degree of peace.
And if we had more peace in this world, the world would be a better place.
My first stop is at Costco. After stuffing my shopping cart with the items I need, referring to a piece of paper with a list of these items including coffee, I go through checkout. Since I own my own business, I am presented a piece of paper that I sign so that I don't have to give the tax man extra pieces of paper. I'm then presented with another piece of paper that tells me I need to give the checker my piece of paper with my signature on it promising that I can afford to take home all of these items and that Costco will eventually get enough pieces of paper to cover the worth of these items; which, by the way, seem to be worth more today than they were worth last Friday. We exchange pieces of paper and I walk out with my items, but not until the door guard puts his/her mark on the piece of paper I was handed by the checker. Now I have a piece of paper with a pink squiggle on it or blue or green, which I stuff into my back pocket.
My next stop is a grocery store in South San Francisco called Manila Oriental Market. Now, this is where it gets interesting. After loading up my cart with more items from the same piece of paper I took with me to Costco listing my items, I go through checkout. Manila Oriental Market has an incentive for shoppers to buy more than they probably need. For every ten dollars worth of non-sale items, they will give you a one dollar paper coupon good at their on-site deli. So, as I go through checkout, I get a piece of paper that tells me how many pieces of paper I need to give them for the piece of paper they just gave me. As we exchange pieces of paper, I take my piece of paper and direct my shopping cart toward the customer counter checker. She will give me one piece of paper for every ten pieces of paper I just gave to the first checker, good at their deli.
As I hand over my piece of paper to the customer counter checker, she checks off my sale items, takes the difference of that sum from the total sum and gives me back several pieces of paper in exchange for having shopped at that store, good at their deli. I then give her two more pieces of paper and ask her to give me two lottery tickets. So, in exchange for my two pieces of paper, she gives me two pieces of paper which could -- or could not -- potentially land me a million or more pieces of paper. I then step aside and take my one-week old pieces of paper, purchased the Friday before, and scan them for potential millions of pieces of paper. I know it's a futile activity because more often than not, those two pieces of paper will end up in the round file with all the other pieces of paper.
I ditch last Friday's pieces of paper, take my five or more other pieces of paper and head for the deli. I then file my two new pieces of paper good until next Friday in my purse, and stuff the marked up checkout piece of paper in my back pocket along with the piece of paper I got from Costco with the door guard's color-of-the-day mark.
As I walk out of the market with a bag full of Chinese food which I got from the pieces of paper that the checkout person gave to me after handing her the initial checkout piece of paper, I head for my car, and I ponder this thought....
The world really does run on agreement. Money, in and of itself, has no value. Paper coupons, in and of themselves, have no value. Lotto tickets, in and of themselves have no value. They are just stupid pieces of paper. We only give them value as part of a global agreement. So much paper is exchanged under agreement.
I wish I had more pieces of paper hidden under my mattress or in my bank account. I know that these kinds of pieces of paper won't buy me love, but they will buy me peace. And heaven only knows how much peace I wish I had now. In fact, the whole world is in much need of peace.
But here's the flip side......
Friendship and trust can "buy" peace just as pieces of paper can, but the cost is not measured in the worth of these pieces of paper, and the return of this investment is always priceless. Paper may or may not come into that equation, but just the word -- and not pieces of paper -- of one person can build or demolish a nation, a friendship, someone's trust. Too much emphasis is placed on worthless pieces of paper and not enough on the word of someone. Under today's global agreement, we have lost the human element of one's word and compassion, and have replaced it with pieces of paper -- pieces of paper, which many of us hoard under our mattress or in a bank because of the global thought that money can buy you anything.
As I walk out of Safeway -- my last stop, and head for my car, having just visited my bank and having just gotten a bunch of pieces of paper that will make my business transactions easier for the evening, I notice a single, solitary person in the midst of many. That person has a cup in front of himself. "Can you spare some change?" [Translation: Can you spare some of your pieces of paper? I need some and don't have any to visit the deli or throw into the round file.] My first inclination is to walk past that person. I see it happen every time. But, I think to myself; I have friends who have been there for me with pieces of paper when I didn't have any, and who have brought peace to my life with their word and their trust and their compassion, and who have not judged me or demanded anything in return for their pieces of paper. And because of them sometime before today, tonight I will have more pieces of paper by the end of the evening's business.
I reach inside my purse and I give this person some of my pieces of paper; in fact many of them. I have enough pieces of paper to keep me afloat -- under my mattress and in the bank. At least, for a small interim, I know I will have given this person some degree of peace. Maybe it will help him toward his next meal. Maybe it will buy him his next fifth of whiskey. Maybe it will get him his next fix and I may not see him tomorrow. But I don't know that. And I'm not going to judge his predicament. I will just know that I will have brought him some degree of peace.
And if we had more peace in this world, the world would be a better place.
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