Today, March 31st, would have been my father’s eighty-seventh birthday. He was born in 1922 in southern Germany, and passed away nearly 13 years ago, at the age of seventy-four. It has been a long time since I have heard his voice or hacking smoker’s cough in the flesh, but those sounds are still fresh in my memory.There are many things (the good, the bad and the ugly) that he has missed over the past several years, but he lives on forever in our minds. If he were here today, I believe that he would be an engaged grandfather to his three grandsons-the boys that he always wanted. (His own offspring were two clones of the female kind.)

We recently had a “visit” from dad. A few weeks ago, my sister and her son cleaned out his old tool chest in mom’s garage. They stumbled upon a receipt from Revco dated June 13, 1996. At precisely 1:55 pm, dad purchased 11 chocolate candy bars, for which he paid $6.90. (He had hidden the receipt and the empty wrappers amongst the tools so mom wouldn’t know that he was cheating on his “diet.”) We found some humor and comfort in knowing that dad had enjoyed one last binge in the days preceding his death. (Now I know where I get my chocolate addiction from.)  Happy Birthday, Dad! You are missed.

My son was born in 1998. A few months after his birth, my neighbor mentioned that she kept journals on all three of her children. She used this writing medium as a way to chronicle their lives. I remember thinking, what a brilliant idea! I could utilize my love of writing to craft the story of a lifetime-the biography of my only child. What better author to compose this non-fiction piece of literature!

I purchased a composition notebook, and began re-tracing those first months of Junior’s life. I strive to pen an entry every two weeks or so. My topics have included food (likes and dislikes), potty training (we had some issues with holding “it” in), his father’s illness and premature death, preschool, Kindergarten and grades beyond, recaps of family vacations, friendships, bullies, Diabetes and more. I am currently working on Volume Seven. Sometime this year or next, I plan to share the notebooks with him.  I believe that he is old enough to enjoy them, and appreciate the time and effort that I invested in capturing his childhood in print.  It has been my pleasure to use this creative outlet for such a treasured purpose. I believe that there is no greater gift that I could possibly give him. Every volume has been written with love.

I brought home an old trunk last weekend.  It has been in my parent’s basement for almost 39 years, and it was headed for either Goodwill or the garbage dump. I had been under the impression that the trunk had transported my parents’ few meager belongings from Germany to the United States in 1953, the year they immigrated. However, my mom informed me that the trunk had belonged to immigrants, just not them.

In 1938, a Jewish couple of German descent fled their homeland for England in order to escape the rise of the Nazi Party, and the trunk served as their luggage. (I can only assume that it may have carried their clothing, photos and possibly a few family heirlooms.)  Eventually, the couple and their trunk relocated to the US, settling in the Midwest. Mom and dad acquired the trunk sometime in the late 1950’s. When my parents purchased their first home, the trunk moved, too. They stored this treasured chest in an attic, where it served as a linen closet of sorts, stuffed with blankets and other bed linens. When they purchased their second home, the big leather box moved the short distance with them, and found a spot in a corner of the basement.

My sister and I have spent the better part of this year relocating my mom to a retirement community. The trunk was not among the items chosen to make the move with her. One recent day, I opened up the trunk and found it filled with old baby clothes once worn by my sister and I. Included inside were several Dirndl’s, which are dresses native to Bavaria and Austria, often worn by young girls. (No doubt they had been sent by relatives when we were young.) I also stumbled upon my fathers Lederhosen, which he wore on weekends as the drummer in a German band. (Lederhosen are leather “shorts” with suspenders attached. They are the special occasion attire of men, young and old.)

I emptied the dusty, well-worn trunk and transported her yet again. I spent some time giving her a real spa treatment. I vacuumed off the dirt and cobwebs and then washed her tough outer shell with Murphy’s oil soap and warm water.  (I was careful not to disturb the paper shipping stickers still stuck to the exterior. The labels are not really legible, but they are proof of where she has been.) I spritzed some Febreze on the inner lining to make her smell more lady-like. Once she had air-dried, I meticulously massaged her with lemon oil to help renew her cracked, weathered skin.

If she could speak, I’d bet she would have lots to share about her travels and the cherished tokens that she has given shelter to over the years. I found a perfect nook for her in my own basement, where I will watch over her carefully. She is, after all, at least seventy-one years old.