The Sounds of Memories
Unearthing Grandma’s Bells
Currently our little Mojo Garden is getting a bit of a remodel in an effort to grow more yummy-tummy food. We have been installing additional vertical gardening structures and that quest has involved relocating some dirt, constructing trellises and overall creative-crafty garden playtime. As a result of this lofty vision, a few days ago I was digging about, moving soil and generally getting my groove on… and jackpot! I unearthed my grandmother’s long lost bells! Can I get a whoop-whoop?
These wily keepsakes had mysteriously disappeared from the garden gate several moons ago. For the life of me I couldn’t find them anywhere. After a period of sulking in the “that sucks” mantra - I had surrendered to their disappearance. I had fully resigned to the highly plausible possibility that mischievous garden fairies had carted them off to an epic and wildly inappropriate party. I had reconciled with the notion, if they were being put to good use and thoroughly enjoyed, how long could I justify prolonged grief due to their unexpected absence?
In all sincerity, I missed the sound of the jingle that had previously rang each time I sauntered through the garden door. Those tiny bells, those sounds from my childhood... I pause with memory (and with full acknowledgement that I was much shorter back then).
Yet, in this moment of discovery, to my surprise and bewilderment - Behold!!! Buried bells emerge to my delight! Joy and mix in a pinch of awe and of course an immediate jingle-jingle. Yay! Happy dance. “They’re back baby!” A treasure troved.
These bells were part of the landscape of sound in my childhood. They hung on my grandma’s back door… and oh, what a woman she was!
Her presence as the family’s matriarch is something that left me too soon. Her absence stealing our time together as an adult granddaughter. Finding them in my company again, after her passing, I realized just how much I missed her.
As reality would have it these bronze beauties parted from their weathered string, rolled/jumped/tumbled/flew approximately 6 to 8 feet away and retired themselves in mounds of soil. I must expose a strong held belief that fairies probably played a role is inexhaustible. Garden fairies and bell combos are like that.
Excited and joyed to find them, their sounds ignited a whoosh of childhood memories from grandma’s house.
My grandmother was larger than life. And to me a tall 5’11ish (add heels to that and you were demanded to look up as she towered in your presence). She had flaming red hair and was a blaze of fire in character, spirited and strong. She drove a Cadillac, wore fur coats, sported her love for jewelry and commanded the room. She was a career woman when it wasn’t popular and a force to be reckoned with. She was intimidating (sometimes), a bit of a bully (sometimes), strict, direct, driven, fierce, independent as hell and generous to her grandchildren. She was imperfect and flawed; wilful and outspoken.
She lived across from Whatcom Falls Park (on my list of Bellingham’s gems; I think of her everytime I visit) and had a huge backyard that I absolutely loved to explore. Her backyard was the place that I was the most comfortable during any visit. As an active and constantly in motion child, the inside of my grandmother’s home wasn’t the most appropriate pairing. She was refined and proper. I was sporty and artsy and on the go. She was serious, reserved and proper. I was not. I could be found perfecting Elvis Presley impersonations and singing into the vacuum cleaner - “please clear the stage, cue the lights.” Her home was glammed with delicate crystal figurines and expensive decor. Running in the house was often my downfall when it came to our exchanges. Moving swiftly in any manner did not serve me well indoors. Not only by default was the backyard my temple but it was my natural habitat.
On her back door, the gateway to my authentic self and immense freedom, hung a string of bells. Each time that door swung open or shut, their magical sound would ring. It was a passageway; in indication of transition; an announcement of an energy shift - a portal. It was the threshold of where our worlds intersected, grandmother and granddaughter. I loved that sound. I loved those little bells.
She or ‘nana’ as she preferred to be addressed, passed when I was in my early 20s, from the savageness of cancer… (that too, is another story, a different tone and season altogether).
There were items gifted, designated to family members by the words she left behind in her will. Much more was dispersed among relatives as the process of emptying her home unfolded.
And all I desired, all I really hoped for was that string of bells. Those tiny bronze bells, those nonchalant, inconsequential, inconspicuous bells, innocently hanging from the backdoor. Those bells, seen through my younger eyes. The sounds of a youthful spirit. The sounds of my grandma’s house.
So, in honor of my exceedingly strong, courageous, vibrant grandmother, I restrung nana’s bells in purple to honor our connection. (Why purple? That’s for another time). Nana’s bells are back “home” - hanging from the garden gate, a threshold, for another go around until needed by the fairies I’m assured.
Our Mojo Garden feels complete with the sounds of nana’s bells. It feels good to reconnect with her energy and the memories of our brief time together. I don’t think you ever really know what gift)(s) you bestow on someone within a relationship, I think that is for each of us to discover on our own. Beyond her example, her strength, her willingness to forge her own path, I think she gifted me the gift of sound. She gifted me the sound of independence and the ringing of authenticity.
With my uncovered familial treasure back on the garden’s gate one might say, ‘Grandma’s back in daaaaa house!’ (or in this case the garden). So sweet when gifts come back around. So sweet to garden with nana again. Those bells ring and my heart flutters with thoughts of her. ~Kristi Lee
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