Bandage Box, Picnic Plastic & Pretty Purse

"Write for four minutes each about what you see. I'll pass them around so you can look more closely."

The writing instructor handed a bandage box, a beaded purse and a white plastic picnic knife to the nearest of eight students. "When you free write, don't worry about punctuation or grammar, just let the words flow from the end of your pen. Don't censor, or correct, just write the first thoughts that come to mind. After you've written about the objects, then spend a couple more minutes, writing about the common thread you find in what your wrote."

These are the words that flowed from my pen during that fifteen minutes writing exercise:

Bandage Box. The box of bandages in my home resides in the left hand cupboard near the bathroom sink. I pull out a bandage, tear it open and as usual, manage to rip the bandage too. They don't make 'em like they use to when mom would put one on my scrapes and scratches. She was a care giver all her life - of me and particularly my father, the wild and crazy red neck, hard, hat, whiskey drinking ladies' man. Although married for 52 years, she became even more stoic over time, perhaps enabled by screwdrivers she came to favor as her drink of choice. I sat in her hospital room the last week of her life. "Do you still love me?" my father, standing beside her bed asked. "Why should I?" she faintly replied.

Plastic Knife. Hard, yet flimsy and white. The box they come in always promises strength, but without fail, they break at the most critical moment. Better for spreading butter than opening a paint can, but that doesn't mean I wouldn't try the impossible. Sometimes it's a matter of using what's available, even if I know the results will be disastrous. I often walked through open doors just to see what was on the other side, not thinking about consequences. It was all about curiosity and discovery.

Beaded Purse. The intricately beaded handbag rests in my dresser drawer. It was my mother's or perhaps her mother's. A treasure never used now, seldom used by my mother and given its origin in time, I can only imagine and hope it was a beautiful accessory for my grandmother. Her life was so hard. It was all work and no play. There were eight mouths to feed on the farm in South Dakota, at a time when beautiful purses weren't needed, necessary or desired. There wouldn't have been time for much dress up.

The Thread.  I come from a line of strong women who had little joy in their lives, but who afforded me opportunities to experiment with life. I'm grateful.