It might be nice to be able to say that I don’t love things. But I do. What I treasure most is what could be called, tactlessly, junk.
Sappy, sentimental, maudlin, mawkish (I’m not sure of those last two words as I don’t think I’ve ever used them), that’s me. I can’t bear to throw away stuff and still regret tossing out old letters years ago.
So I’m glad I didn’t get rid of my Texas flag. Not that I don’t love my State, but it’s not Texas that attaches me to it. It’s my mother. She made it when I was twelve.
I’d volunteered to bring a flag to my geography class the next day. I was probably grandstanding, or maybe trying to ingratiate myself to a teacher who didn’t like me. And he really didn’t. After announcing that I would come up with a flag, I forgot about it.
Until 9:00 that night. As I was complaining about Mr. Reeves—the horrid teacher—one last time before bed, I suddenly remembered. Oh nooooooo!
Mother to the rescue. She asked how big it needed to be. Doesn’t matter, anything, whatever, I blubbered. She pulled out several scraps of fabric and, in ten minutes, I had my flag. Mr. Reeves was impressed.
Many years later, when she saw the flag framed on my wall, my mother said, “Well, I’d have made it look better if I’d known you were going to frame it.”
No, no, it was perfect. Still is.