Stairway to Heaven

I'm just going to lay it out there, because he doesn't read my blog:

Dad, I am sorry that I  threw away your bright red leg brace. Momma told me it was OK. 

Now, moving on...

Exactly ONE MONTH from the time you read this, I'll be be wide awake, chatting with my beautiful big sis, pacing the floor of the bedroom in which I first discovered the Growing Tree while texting my brother. 

Ah, our wedding day. 

Please let me look better in 2013 than I did in 2008. 

Last night I went to Momma and Dad's to attempt to store away a few things in the attic so when we do wedding hair, make-up and photos in the homestead we won't fret about the K-Mart box of old jeans and flannel shirts marked "To-Be-Hemmed 2010" in the back corner of the room. 

I'll admit it: we have stuff. 

So Momma and I flipped a coin and she ended up in the attic where she had to put things "in their place" (i.e. the place "stuff" goes to die), and I was responsible for the heavy lifting up the ladder to her tiny arms. 

We actually did pretty well. I sent 21 framed seasonal prints up the "stairway to Heaven" (once things go up, they never come down) along with 2 Rubbermaid tubs and some odds and ends. 

Like a giant bag of holiday teddybears that the grandkids may, or may not, someday enjoy and a box full of flashlights and leather gloves Dad had ordered for customers one year that never got distributed: stamped 1993. 

"We'll use 'em" - Even if the batteries have corroded every single usable piece. 

After an hour Momma reported from the third floor that she was tired and hot in the ancient attic and wanted to do just one more round:

The Purge. 

No sweeter words have been spoken to this gal (except "Lindsay, Will you marry me?") in a long, long time. 

"Great idea!" I shouted up. "Send down 8 things for the trash barrel!"

I heard scuffling. 

I was darn near slapped in the face by a rubber gorilla mask that had melted into itself. She really didn't tell me it was coming. 

I heard more "Awwwwwwwwwwwws" than the law should allow. 

I had to call up once to make sure Momma hadn't passed out. 

Ten seconds later: "FIRE WAY, JEAN!"

Next thing I know my so-not-athletic mother was winging things at me that I hadn't seen or thought of in twenty years. One near-miss later and I raised my voice. "MOM! Slow down! I don't need a broken nose, I need 8 things handed down to me!"

The scuffles stopped and I felt just a little bit awful about speaking to Momma like that.

Until she threw down her 8 things. 

3 pairs of unmendable  gloves due to squirrel habitation. 

4 napkins that had never been used (unless you're a mouse?):

"Awww, I forgot about these! Do you want to see one with out the squirrel marks?"

1 plastic Easter egg with a 20-year-old Hershey kiss seeping from the bottom. 

1 mobile leg brace Dad had to wear during his knee surgery - have you the read the blog about my father being caged within the hospital walls?

1 craft project that I entered into the mini  4-H show:

(You're welcome for not competing against your kids.)

A skeleton ring from a late-80's kindergarten class Halloween party. This was stored in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles crayon box. She just didn't have it in her to toss the whole box.

And finally....

"Jean! I found this  bag and was going to toss it, but then I looked inside..."

I asked Momma, "Oh geez.....is it still breathing?"

Suddenly, she got tender. I knew it was a treasure to her, so I had to treat as a treasure, too. I climbed up the ladder to see the fragile IGA bag. Little pieces of the bag flaked away as I grabbed it. 

Inside: 

The Barbie Bride. Her hair is ratted (but big, which I do appreciate) and her gown reeks of melted Dollar General soap and Pepto-bismol. Sounds about right. 

I didn't argue with Momma about keeping the 1990 bride; it is because of this bride that we found her again, after all. 

Now, if she isn't in August 13th trash run, we may need to have a another come to Jesus meeting about the "stairway to Heaven" - and who knows?? We may get crazy and toss the melted crayons in the crayon box, too.