Memories are important when you are old

My mother has moved to an assisted living center in Logan. It is very apparent that she cannot go back to her home in Green River for age and health reasons. I have been very surprised at the responses of the good people of GR as they discover she will not return to her home of fifty-five plus years. (Many of these will be put away for another time or to be forgotten as a bitter memory.) One such response is that a surprising number of people are anxious to move into her home. We have sold it to Elias and Sara who are living with Elias' brother in a small single wide trailer home so we are each doing a great service for the other. This means that all of Mother's stuff from the last fifty five years must be moved. Lots of memories--trinkets, dishes, pictures, rugs and blankets. Memories of school successes and school failures. Memories of Dean and his dog, Dean and his horse, Dean and his Jeeps. Memories of riding my bike, performing in the school musical, playing in the school band. Copies of every ticket my dad issued as on officer of the Utah Highway Patrol--his hat, his boots, his badges. All this and so much more are stowed away in closets, cupboards, corners and the basement of this rickety old double-wide trailer home.

One thing found among the memories is pictures of the old house I grew up in (not the one we are cleaning out and selling now.) Mother hated living in this house. It was owned by the state of Utah who, in turn, allowed Dad and us to live there for free if he were willing to move to GR and be a state trooper in that part of the state. Dad thought it was a great deal, but Mother thought it was awful. Not only did she have to move from SLC where there were stores and movies and green grass to a part of the Utah desert where little if anything grew and there wasn't a clothing store within 100 miles or a movie theatre within 60, but she was asked to live in a house with two front doors, no carpet, only one bedroom and a kitchen too small to even hold the refrigerator. I don't remember these and other things being a problem. I loved the big, claw-footed bathtub even though the bathroom was a walk-way from one side of the house to the other. I loved my backporch bedroom. I loved the round spot on the livingroom floor that was just above the coal furnace. Sitting on that spot when it was cold outside kept me nice and warm with my favorite gothic romance novel. I loved sitting on the screened frontporch watching the world go by on Highway 50 and 6. Funny, but I didn't know we were poor white trash when I was a kid.