fingerprints

my mom keeps things. pretty much everything.

so it's no wonder that when i realized my oldest son would love an ancient typwriter for his very special birthday (he turns 9 on 9/9/09) that she would have one sitting in her basement. an old smith-corona that belonged to my beloved great aunt, Shash.

shash stood for francis, pronounced by a child. shash.

the typewriter is old...sticky and covered in muck and oily dirt. i took out a cloth tonight, some alcohol and a brush to begin the process to clelaning it.

but i am a bit freaked out.

i have a deep rooted love and adoration of things with history, a love and passion that i passed down to Little J. it is odd though, that shash's fingerprints bring back such vivid memories...she lived with my family during my high school years and i helped to care for her as she aged. she was obese and had arthritis and had a hard time moving about. she needed a lot of help to put it mildly. but she was grateful and pleasant...and so generous. it wasn't like she was a burden. not to me, at least. although there were some sites, scents and unpleasantries i'm sure she'd hope i would forget...but i haven't.

especially not with seeing her fingerprints all over this typewriter. her fingers were often coated with stuff...food, most of the time. when she woke up she would begin to prepare dinner if only in her mind. she was a single woman all of her life, rumor has it a virgin. a business woman, first woman to work at Western Connecticut State University in the business office even. she was the first feminist i ever knew...and i didn't even know the term for it back then. she traveled the world on her good state worker's pay. and what were her tales from her travels? they were about food. from french gourmet to hot dog carts the woman could recall practically every meal she had in her life. and she did. fondly. often.

she had a passion for eating. and it showed in her physique, which ultimately made her life sour. she had to give up her mobility, her freedom because she could no longer lift her heavy legs from gas to brake. she needed to ring a little bell that sat next to her auto-lift recliner so i would come in and help her to the bathroom, or change her clothing, help her bathe or pick up the imagined string she thought was all over the floor. she walked with a walker that bent and buckled underneath her great weight. eventually she wound up in a wheel chair. eventually my parents wound up wanting to leave connecticut for maine and she wound up giving it all up and choosing a nursing home for herself...where the food sucked.

i remember the night she died. i was my now husband's neighbor. it was the night i went to see that stupid war movie with matt damon in it...in the theatre with that stupid, idiot boyfriend i was dating back then. i came home, thinking about world war 2 and the era my aunt was from and i sadly discovered that she was gone. i was in maine. she was in connecticut. and she was just gone. i think she was 84. i was 25.

a month later i bought my little house. J came around four or five months after that and has been here ever since...and then the babies started making their entrances into the world. J, our three children and i all live in that little house still, although it looks much differnt than it did 11 years ago when i bought it. it makes me sad that she died right before these great transitions of mine. she didn't get to experience it. she never really got to know the woman i have become.

but her typewriter is sitting in this old 1790's cape of ours...that old heavy beast covered in her fingerprints...it will see my offspring and know them. hopefully it will click and clack it's way into the heart of Little J, my writer with a passion for the ancient, the used, things with a past...

i do need to clean off the fingerprints. though they do leave a lovely patina...i have to admit, i relate them to the smears on the bathroom wall next to the roll of toilet paper that i cleaned up for her while holding my breath...and the smudges all over the house from where she leaned on the walls or the furntiture to help her move around. at 16, for me, sometimes it was hard not to gag. but i am stronger and kinder and wiser from having loved her...and lived so closely with her.

Shash. i love you. thanks for the typewriter. and the many lessons. (and thanks mom, for having it still!)

xo