As a child growing up in Texas, the month of August always conjures up memories of record breaking heat, droughts, and water use restrictions. Of course, the only effect water conservation had on us kids was whether we played in the water sprinklers on the odd or even side of the street. And when droughts were severe, community prayer meetings were often held. Such was the setting of my childhood marriage.

Danny was five, and I was six, the morning he proposed. It was blistering hot; the thermometer on the back porch had passed the hundred-degree mark hours ago. Danny and I were sitting on the curb in front of my house eating Popsicles. Every bite was a race against the heat. I remember it so clearly, his lips were purple and mine were bright red. Certainly not the way a girl would want to look with her first marriage proposal just minutes away, but such was my fate.

For weeks Danny had not been his usual cheerful self. He fervently denied that he was going to be a ring bearer in a family wedding. His mother told us he was; he told us he wasn’t. Either way, the wedding hung like a black cloud over his head and consequently was ruining our neighborhood fun. Our best batter and kicker was out of sorts and not up for any street games. So I was surprised when between licks and bites of his Popsicle he said, “It seems everybody has to marry some time or another.” I nodded my agreement rather than speak. He watched as I deftly captured the last icy clump off my stick.

“So,” he continued, “why don’t we get married today and get it over with?” Not wanting to rush such a tender moment, I selected a spot between the curb and pavement and jabbed my twin-pop sticks into the crack, then answered, “Sure, why not.” Our icy treats were gone, and it was just too hot to discuss the pros and cons of the inevitable.

Skipping the wedding ceremony completely, Danny asked me if I’d like a house. As we already had homes it took several minutes to decide whether we needed another house, but after much thought we decided to be home owners. So Danny went to his backyard and dragged a large cardboard appliance box over to my backyard. Today’s architects would call it a freestanding structure with a great room. The front door was wide and the windows were small as it formerly served as his fort. He asked if I liked it, and I assured him I did.

With the house in place, we joined our friends who had waited impatiently on their bikes and rode off like a posse of Texas Rangers to a nearby park. That night the community’s prayers for rain were answered, and my first house was flattened under a hard driving rain. It rained throughout the night, and a great sigh of gratitude was heard over a large area of Texas. The next day, Danny walked two gold rings down an aisle as I dragged our soggy house to the alley for trash pick up.

Monday morning Danny was free of his fancy suit and lacy pillow, and I was free from housekeeping duties. The pressures of the adult world were gone. The marriage was brief. There had been no wedding expenses, mortgage, insurance claims or hurt feelings. Twenty-four hours in the adult world were enough for two sun-baked kids.

Years later, my real love came along, and I received another proposal. Departing the Dallas/Fort Worth airport in heavy turbulence, my sweetheart asked for my hand in marriage. His tender words were, “If we survive this flight, will you marry me?” Like my first proposal, it wasn’t very romantic, but I was so in love I said, “Yes.” This proposal came with a Christmas wedding and a real house. Our first home withstood years of heavy snows and blizzards. Our second home, here at the beach, has survived tropical storms and hurricanes. But August heat and heavy rains always remind me of my first love and childhood marriage.

I love that I was born on Valentine’s Day, a day of love. In the early weeks of February hearts of every size and shape remind us that someone special needs to know how much we love them. For little kids it’s a time to get down and sticky with paper and paste and make a card or gift for someone that’s really special and, for us older kids, it’s a day we can set aside to celebrate with the love we found years ago or just met.

As a child, Valentine’s Day was mostly celebrated at school. My mom and dad never exchanged cards or gifts, only spoken wishes. But one thing was constant; my dad always came home from work with a gift of Pangburn’s chocolates in a red heart-shaped box. And, though it was given to me for my birthday, I knew the candy was for my mom as well. We made the candy last as long as we could, and I never threw the box away until there was hope of another one.

Even after I was married my dad made sure, in his Texas fatherly way, that hubby would see to it that I had a red heart-shaped box of candy for my birthday from mom and dad. Assured the candy would be delivered as requested, my dad decided to add a five-dollar bill to my birthday card. This was truly a splurge on his part, as he was a man not prone to over doing anything.

For some twenty years the ritual continued, then one day I was asked if I would like ten rather than five dollars for my birthday. I declined the offer as five dollars was the perfect amount – enough to enjoy spending, but not too much to have to think about how I spent it. With the passing of my mother, I wondered if my dad would remember my birthday. Had she been the one to remind him of the date? I need not have worried, for he remained faithful with a card and the five dollars until his death at age 89. And so it had been for me for forty-nine Valentine Days.

As my fiftieth birthday drew near, all I could think about was a heart-shaped box of candy and a card with a five dollar bill that wouldn’t be part of my day. I didn’t need the candy or the money; I needed the love that always came with the simple gifts. I missed my parents and wondered how I would survive the day.

But love came as it always had. Knowing the ache in my heart, a red heart-shaped box of candy was waiting for me at breakfast and in my birthday card from Donald was a five-dollar bill and note that said, “Your dad would have wanted you to have this – especially this year.” I cried. And every year since those reminders of my parent’s love still come on my Valentine birthday, through the heart and hands of the man I love. It’s truly a special day.

The moving van had just pulled away from the house when a lady in our new retirement community stopped and cheerfully welcomed us to “God’s little waiting room.” Waiting room? Yes, she explained, it’s just a matter of time before each of us living here is called to that great mansion in the sky. Her departing advice was even more cheery; get your final arrangements made. I just stood there. We had been in town less than 48 hours, and I didn’t know if we were coming or going.

For four years we kept the trip to the mortuary at bay, and then, with the passing of a friend, hubby woke and said, “Let’s get it done.” I knew what he meant. It was time to make the final arrangements for our physical departure. Immediately, I asked what I should wear to the funeral home. “Casual dress,” hubby snapped, “You’re not staying.”

We did not go directly to the mortuary. We sort of worked our way to it. We did a little shopping, took a drive along the ocean, ate lunch at a Mexican restaurant, and as though we were shopping for beach towels, strolled into the funeral home. Naturally, we chose one close to our community, hoping it would be convenient for any friends wishing to bid us farewell.

It was a scary undertaking – no pun intended. It was not like anything we had ever done. We explained our purpose to an older gentleman who met us at the door, and we were escorted to a nicely appointed office where a much younger man joined us. The young man was “in training.” Both were very pleasant, respectful and quite serious.

Amenities were exchanged which helped me to stop the visible shaking of my limbs. I was cold as ice, but by the time the obituaries were finished and the service arrangements were complete, hubby’s color had returned, and I had warmed up – a little.

Things were going well; we were more than half way through their checklist. We had reached the point where we needed to explain that we had burial plots out of state and would need some help getting there. I expressed an interest in flying to my final destination and hubby gave me a look that said, “Whatever you want dear.” So fly we would.

Quietly, the older gentleman took a book from his desk and after some fine print reading, he removed his glasses and told us that currently the charge was $241 each for the flight. “Is that round trip?” my husband asked. For a second I wondered why were we returning, then it dawned on me that hubby was trying to lighten the moment. The older gentleman chuckled, but the young one sat straight-faced and glassy-eyed.

The humor lessened the tension in me which was good, because the casket selection was next. We were in what I call the selection room less than a minute when I saw hubby point, turn and exit. He had made up his mind so quickly; I wondered what he had chosen. It was nice. I could live with it.

It wasn’t that easy for me. Working the room, I held my arm aside the various satin linings and finally realized that only the ecru lining was going to help my appearance once I reached this building. When I gave the gentleman my color choice I asked him to underline it twice, and then said change it if he found it made me look like death warmed over. I couldn’t believe I’d said such a stupid thing. I thought, OK, take me now, but his smile told me he knew exactly what I’d meant.

That evening, we phoned our daughter to tell her of the arrangements. She assured us that she was capable of carrying out our final wishes and thanked us for being so thoughtful of her. Before hanging up, I made sure she would double check the color of the satin lining. I sensed there was something she wanted to say, but she said nothing. I took the hesitation in her voice to be an emotional pause.

In a casual phone conversation a decade later, I mentioned to my daughter that she would never believe what I’d been doing. With fear in her voice she said, “Oh, Mom, please tell me you weren’t at the funeral home checking your skin tone against the latest line of casket fabrics.” I was speechless…so much for that emotional pause years ago.

So, at the risk of giving our daughter further angst, I’m through with all verbal legal chatter, I’m just leaving a note! It’s my final plan on the final arrangements, which at last, are finally made!

Nowhere in all my years of wandering through museums, antique shops, or private and historic homes have I ever come across a hand-stitched sampler that read “Home Popcorn Home.” It’s a shame because popcorn is a natural host to special times with family and friends. I have never seen a buttery bowl of popcorn that didn’t draw people to its rim.

One of my earliest memories is of my mother standing over the stove shaking a black iron skillet over an open flame. There was something magical about the sound of corn kernels dancing in hot oil and that woof of total surrender as hot butter was drizzled over the white puffy pillows. When the salt was shaken, I knew it was ready.

Most often, a batch of popcorn returns me to the living room of my childhood home and a Saturday night episode of Gun Smoke. As if I were there, I see my dad enjoying the big shoot-out in front of the Long Branch Saloon, my mother laughing at some ridiculous argument between Doc and Festus, while I long for Marshall Dillon to kiss Miss Kitty. Yep, armed with a bowl of popcorn, my family helped tame the Wild West. How I treasure those evenings with my parents. They were well and happy with so many wonderful times still ahead of them.

As I readied my belongings for dorm life, my parents gave me an electric popcorn popper. They knew their child would have little time for television in the freshman year, but they hoped there would always be time for memories of Saturday evenings with Mom and Dad, and there was. That little electric popper went a long way towards making a dorm room home, and roommates and suitemates family. It made its way into the hearts of many a friend. I can never pass a movie theater without that smell of popcorn bringing back memories of dorm life. And what wonderful memories they are – we girls haven’t aged at all.

Two years after college, I went to live in Salzburg, Austria. I left these shores prepared to live two years without waxed-paper, Saran Wrap, Jell-O, marshmallows, chocolate chips or refrigeration, but no one prepared me for the scarcity of popcorn. No popcorn. The thought was mind-numbing for all the American students. Thankfully parents felt our pain, and sent care packages. With wattage differences skillets returned to the stoves and more than once we sent un-popped kernels back into the hot oil in hopes of savoring a few more bites. Maybe for the first time in our lives we understood the meaning of waste not, want not.

Our Austrian friends were awed that we were so wild about farm feed. Equally, we didn’t understand why they soaked their French fries in mayonnaise. Some cultural exchanges were not overly intellectual. Often I’ll hear a melody of Mozart’s and it sits me down in the living room of a four hundred year old building on the banks of the Salzach River; a place I called home and bouts of homesickness were eased with bowls of popcorn.

Well! As good as the old days were, I was recently yanked into the 21st century. My daughter was putting together a care package for a freshman headed for dorm life, and I suggested she include an electric popper and a nice supply of ingredients. She waited until she had my attention, then slowly spelled aloud, M-I-C-R-O-W-A-V-E. Clearly, I was out of touch with the modern day kernel.

I was saddened to find the skillet and electric popper obsolete to a whole new generation. As I sat wondering how the beep of a microwave and a scorched bag of artificially flavored popcorn could possibly transport anyone to home sweet home, the microwave roared into action, a paper bag puffed to life, and our grandson and his buddies re-lived their recent victory over a bag of nuked popcorn. So…maybe there’s hope for microwave popcorn. I paused to savor the moment, knowing from experience that my grandson can always return home to the treasured times he shared with family and friends thanks to the essence of popcorn.

Photos – snap shots – are a passion of mine. I’ve spent a lifetime preserving such meaningful events as the postman’s new mail truck, the color of our house shutters, or a neighbor’s do-it-yourself hair cut. There are those who would swear that I have a picture of every meal our family has eaten. I just love taking pictures. One glance at our many, many photo albums and there’s no doubt as to how much I love my family and friends. It’s quite possible that I alone have been the financial stabilizing factor behind George Eastman’s brain child.

Recently I took stock of our vast collection of pictures, and oddly, it sent me into a deep funk. Who in the future would ever want the bazillion photos of our family? With only one child, exactly how many pictures does she need of her dad and dog mowing the lawn and, my word, how many school busses did she board? Pondering such questions, especially ones of such depth, sent me into a sobbing that only Mexican food could stop. Long live chips and salsa and a patient husband!

I was still obsessing over the photos and their future when our daughter came for a vacation. I gave her a few days to relax before I asked her what she thought would happen to the volumes and volumes of celluloid memories surely to be tossed and forgotten the second I passed from this earth. Was that guilt or what! In hopes of soothing my worried soul, she returned home with every album documenting her thirty-nine years of life, vowing, of course, to treasure each picture forever.

My spirits lifted. Over the next months, every time she called we would talk about various pictures depicting the different stages of her life and mine. I sensed she was pleased to have the photos in her possession. We chatted at great length about our favorite mother-daughter pictures, the cost of her college education as compared to mine, our graduation days, even the differences in the price of our first cars. At one point she even mentioned that she might one day set aside some time and make an album of her favorite pictures. I was at peace that our family pictures would survive at least one more generation.

It wasn’t until February when we went north for our grandson’s tenth birthday party that the results of all the reminiscing over the phone was revealed. Arriving mid-afternoon before the family was home from school and work, we settled into our room. Waiting for me on the hope chest was a scrapbook I recognized as one my daughter and I had purchased a couple of years ago. Without even touching it I sensed the love it held. The slightly puffy pages told me that she, an avid scrapbooker, had been hard at work. I did not open it, but waited for what seemed an eternity for her to get home so we could share the moment together.

The experience was ethereal. Page after page, she showed our life together as mother and daughter. With pictures and journaling she paralleled our births, family history, pets, cars, sports, days as biker chicks (that would be bicycles and mopeds), proms, graduations, hair styles, and years of favorite mother-daughter pictures. Together, we laughed over hair styles and fashions, and cried over pets so dear to our hearts that are no longer with us.

The last page was entitled The Ultimate Gift, where she acknowledged that with the birth of her son, she finally understood a mother’s unconditional love. The two pictures spanned thirty years, me holding her after her birth in 1967, and the two of us with her son after his birth in 1997. She told me the scrapbook was a gift of love for her mom. The tears flowed once more as I hugged my child. I have ceased to worry about the future of my family or its pictures.

A jar of Del Monte dill pickle halves Kosher-style, a five-pack of Double Bubble bubblegum, and a five-cent Fudgsicle topped the list of my favorite things when I was a little kid. In my teenage years I added to that list a 45-rpm record player, an Angora sweater collar, and Dr Pepper. The list changed often throughout my college and young adult years. It almost dropped out of sight with motherhood and a career. Unknowingly however, I kept a little treasure from each stage of my life.

One memento from my career is a pair of penny-loafers. They are no longer considered high-fashion footwear for women, but they occupy a prominent spot on my shoe rack. They are worn and bear the shape of my narrow feet even when they are at rest. The once gold Sebago label can no longer be read; only the imprint of the logo remains to identify the manufacturer. The soles are worn and the stitching is wearing thin in places. They are polished often and worn only occasionally and always in the best of weather, as their longevity is of the utmost importance to me.

I purchased the shoes in the dead of winter, and due to poor weather, waited a while before exposing them to the snow and slush that tracked into the halls and classrooms of the school where I taught. The first day I wore them a seventh-grade boy in a morning class became fixed on them. His eyes followed my feet everywhere I went in the classroom. It became unnerving, and before long I was sneaking peeks to see if perhaps the price had not been removed from the shoes. Finally the bell rang and he made sure he was the last to exit. Stopping at the door he asked, “Where are the pennies if your shoes are penny-loafers?” I was flooded with relief on one hand and wondered about the strength of my lesson on the other. Looking at my feet, I confessed that I had simply forgotten the pennies. Shifting his books from one arm to the other he dug through his pockets able to produce only his lunch money and one spare penny. With a heavy sigh he left me saying, “I’ll be back after lunch with the other penny.”

True to his words, he returned and I stood at my door greeting a new class with first one shoe on then the other one off, as a crowd of students watched him struggle to insert two brand new 1984 pennies into the tight leather openings of my new shoes. I gave him a late pass to his next class and thanked him for the pennies, wondering if I were even allowed to accept money from a student. Before he turned to go he said, “You know, Mrs. Orr, you’re my favorite teacher.” From the look on his face, I had no doubt that the words came from the bottom of his heart. Later that day, I called his mom and told the story of her son’s generosity.

Though the shoes have been cleaned and polished many times in 23 years, the pennies have never been removed. The struggle to get them into place was too great. In the left shoe, Mr. Lincoln, though dull and covered in polish, remains upright and properly centered in the tiny opening, in the right shoe he has slid off to the right in what appears to be in a permanent state of recline. The loafers have drawn many comments over the years from “when was the last time I saw shoes like that,” to “Oh Mom, really!” But, I can handle the remarks because these shoes recall a special moment in my career.

I’m sure it’s wishful thinking to hope that somewhere in this fast-pace high-tech world a 35-year old man would ever remember me or my penniless loafers, but every time I open my closet, I remember him. Who would have thought two cents would be so treasured?