Memories

He climbs out of his truck, a tall, lanky old man and struggles into the office.  "I've forgotten my code again. Can you let me in?"  He shakes his head as if that will shake his memory loose and reaches for the card on which I've written the code again.  "I'll use it on the way out," he says.  I open the gate after he climbs back into his truck.  He smiles broadly and his wife waves.

On the back of his truck are many items.  There must be 30 wooden picture frames - no pictures - just frames.  There is a wooden box-looking thing on a pedestal.  It has leather handles on each end.  At the back, on top of everything, is a fancy walker.  You know the kind.  It has fairly big wheels, a basket and a seat.  It even has brakes.  There is a rope across the whole kit and kaboodle.

A little while later, he comes back to the office.  "I thought we decided on 568, but the one you gave me is 529."  He looks a little confused, pulls his contract out of his pocket and carefully unfolds it.  "I really wanted the one that was across from my other unit." 

"No problem," I reply.  "You know that unit is a bit smaller?"  He nods his assent and with a few quick keystrokes, the smaller unit is his.  I go back outside with him to take him back to his truck.  His weathered hands stroke the seat of the golf cart as we go.

"I should get one of these for the campgrounds.  It would be wonderful for my wife.  She doesn't walk so well anymore, but she surely loves to go!"  He smiles as he speaks of his wife.  "She's an artist, you know.  A good one."  So that's why all the frames.  His wife is asleep in the truck.  I help him untie the ropes covering his treasures.  I ask about the box on the pedestal.  A cobweb of a memory is floating around in my head.  It looks familiar, but I can't place it.

"Well, my wife collects western items.  That there is a saddle stand.  Look below on the bed here.  It's an old saddle."  Indeed, it was.  Not like the ones of today, sleek and streamlined, but sturdy with a solid horn and leather a little higher than normal at the back.  It's not ornate.  This was a working saddle back in the day.  A stiff rope is wound about the horn.  He tells about the man he bought it from.  Somewhere, he tells me, his wife has the history of the saddle and its owner.  Quite a story, he says.  His mind seems to wander back to the story.

Mrs. M doesn't hear well anymore.  Most of the time she sits in the front of the truck and sleeps or just stares.  She's not animated.  Until Mr. M approaches.  Then, out of the deepest part of her, a smile first and then her round face appears to come alive.  There is a kindness about him and as she reaches for him, the love that they have shared lo, these many years, shines right through and they become young lovers once again.  They hold hands for a few seconds and he goes back to work unloading their treasures into the storage unit.

The items he's placed in these two storage units would have a story of their own if they could talk.  They would tell of years gone by, of the times when they were both docents at the Santa Barbara Mission.  How she would sit under a tree dressed as an Indian woman and weave a spell for the children. How he would lead those same children around on a donkey cart.  They would tell of days gone by at the canvas; now old, but once-young hands weaving again, but this time a story in oils. 

Time has weathered their faces and their skin is thinner than it used to be.  God has carved character where there was once youth. They may have forgotten more stories than I will ever be able to tell. Some of their precious memories now live on in me. I pray that someday someone will see in us the little glimpses I've seen in them.