Good Earthkeeping, by Tasha Halpert –
Growing up I preferred tales of adventure to almost any other kind of book except fairy stories. Biographies bored me as did many of the titles on the summer reading list. Give me a book by Robert Louis Stevenson, Jules Verne or Alexandre Dumas and I was content to curl up in a comfortable spot and plunge myself into the wondrous world the author created. My own adventures were often something I got scolded or even punished for. Being a girl I was not encouraged to be adventuresome.
Recently, without meaning to, I created myself an adventure. If I had thought about it, I wouldn’t have put the new scissors I’d found in my late mother’s storage unit into a suitcase on my return flight. If I had checked it, I wouldn’t have been stopped and had my carry-on opened and examined. When a Transportation Security Administration guard measured the scissors and put them back in the old red nylon suitcase that once belonged to my mother, I breathed a sigh of relief and prepared to gather my belongings. Then he took a bit of white material and ran it around the inside near the zipper.
Suddenly I was asked to take off my shoes and was patted down by a female guard, informing me each time what she would be doing. Knowing I had nothing to fear, I simply allowed the experience to unfold. My daughter was worried, however we had arrived early so were in no danger of missing our flight. At one level I was laughing inside at the thought that an elderly great grandmother could be considered dangerous. However, I remained calm, knowing that giggling might not be regarded as appropriate.
Finding nothing, they asked me if I took any medication. I said no, but the suitcase had belonged to my mother. Then they mentioned nitroglycerine. I remembered that my mother had told me she once took something for her heart. That cleared it all up. I put on my shoes and collected my belongings. Feeling relieved, I left the security area. Apparently even after many years in storage an old suitcase could carry traces of a heart medicine and in these days of terrorist precautions it comes across as a potential threat.
My daughter and I had just spent almost two whole days processing the contents of a storage unit that had been unopened for 12 years. It contained the contents of my late mother’s art studio. We separated out a considerable amount of material that will form the basis for a retrospective exhibit to be curated by my youngest daughter, herself an artist. My mother was a professional with much art and many exhibits to her credit. If she had not shunned the limelight she might be a household word herself. I wondered if from her perch in heaven she looked down at my dilemma and giggled. I think it would have amused her that her adventuresome daughter had unwittingly created herself an adventure.
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