By Kerrie Barney
Mother's love grows by giving.
~Charles Lamb
My mother recently called me over to witness a discovery she'd made. Tucked into the very corner of the family attic, the discovery was an old cardboard oatmeal container wrapped in blue paper. On the lid was a childish crayon drawing of the eight-year-old-me-I-had-been, complete with glasses and long brown braids. And on the side was the legend: "Kerrie Barney Time Capsule, 1986." My mom's eyes twinkled quite a bit as she handed it over. "I thought you should be the one to open it," she said.
Mother's love grows by giving.
~Charles Lamb
My mother recently called me over to witness a discovery she'd made. Tucked into the very corner of the family attic, the discovery was an old cardboard oatmeal container wrapped in blue paper. On the lid was a childish crayon drawing of the eight-year-old-me-I-had-been, complete with glasses and long brown braids. And on the side was the legend: "Kerrie Barney Time Capsule, 1986." My mom's eyes twinkled quite a bit as she handed it over. "I thought you should be the one to open it," she said.
The strange thing was, until that moment I hadn't even remembered the time capsule, the product of a third-grade school project. Both excited and a little apprehensive, I carried it into the dining room and spilled out the contents on my mom's table. There was a photocopied worksheet full of questions like "How tall are you?" and "What's your favorite food?" painstakingly filled out in my awkward beginner's cursive. There was a handful of rocks I'd picked up on the playground, a tiny little doll I now remembered as having been very precious, my first pair of glasses, and a baggie full of twenty-year-old rabbit food that I'm sure I meant to be symbolic of our family pet. And there were handful after handful of beaded necklaces.
They spilled out of the time capsule like confetti, all conceivable shapes and colors, a veritable rainbow of history that instantly took me back in time. When I was six years old, my mother took the unprecedented step of starting her own business. It was an exciting, terrifying year in our family history, and since a fledgling entrepreneur like my mother couldn't afford either office rent or child care, I ended up spending a lot of time in the home office my mother made of our basement. Every day after school I'd walk down the steps to the basement, to spend my evenings reading or doing homework at a spare desk in the corner. More often than not, I'd fall asleep under the conference table before Mom was able to get away, and she'd have to carry me upstairs to bed when her workday finally ended.
I have to say that, despite being distracted by a thousand pressing worries, my mother never forgot just how hard spending so much time in an adult environment could be on a child. She always made sure that we spent the dinner hour eating together, even if that dinner was a frozen meal hurriedly heated in the office's microwave and eaten at her desk between phone calls. And at least once a week she visited the city's teaching supply company where she could get good deals on art supplies and craft kits to keep me occupied. I had crayons and poster paints and modeling clay galore, all tucked into my very own drawer at the bottom of her filing cabinet. And then one day she bought me The Beads.
The fact that I refer to The Beads with capital letters does not mean they were expensive by any means. Made of plastic and purchased by the pound -- I think my mother paid seven dollars for a five pound bag -- they were hardly the stuff award-winning jewelry is made of. But they were colorful, made of a bright, pure, translucent plastic that sparkled in the sunlight like a pirate's hoard. And to my eight-year-old eyes they were the most beautiful things in the world. Mom helped me transfer them into Grandma's old canning jars so they would be easier to transport without spilling, and for the next two years I was a girl possessed, spending hours sorting The Beads by color and shape, painstakingly searching for matches I could string into jewelry. My mom bought me a cone of weaver's carpet warp, a strong, thick, white thread just the right weight for childish fingers to manage, and I made necklace after necklace, fascinated by the way the different colors blended together to make works of art. Some of these creations I wore to school or for make believe, transforming myself into a princess or a fairy queen. Most I gave to my mother, who wore one to every business meeting and power lunch with pride.
Looking at these necklaces now, strung on their finger-soiled cotton warp and finished by the simple expedient of tying the thread in a knot and leaving the ends to dangle (it would be years before I learned about clasps or crimp beads), part of me has to wonder if the whole reason Mom let me have them for the time capsule in the first place was her subtle way of getting out of wearing them. Still, when I can banish my inner critic and look at the necklaces honestly, I can see that they really are beautiful. The colors and shapes are blended together in surprisingly sophisticated ways, proving that even at eight, I was already playing with design in an effort to realize my own visions. And the love they represent -- the love of a mother taking time to nurture her daughter's creative spirit even under very trying circumstances, and the love of a daughter taking that nurturing and offering it back in beaded form -- is a beautiful thing indeed.
I had opened that time capsule expecting to see how much I had changed in the last twenty years, how much time and growth had transformed me. Instead, I am overwhelmed by how much of me has stayed the same. My braids are long gone, but I still wear glasses. I still pick up rocks that catch my eye when I'm walking to and from work. I still love animals and seem to spend an inordinate amount of time and money on keeping them fed. And yes, I still love beads, supplementing my income by selling hand knotted gemstone jewelry at craft fairs, and I still make necklaces for my mother. And she still wears them with pride.
So the woman that I am, and the girl that I was, are not so different after all -- instead we're inextricably connected. As connected as two beads glittering on the same strand.
They spilled out of the time capsule like confetti, all conceivable shapes and colors, a veritable rainbow of history that instantly took me back in time. When I was six years old, my mother took the unprecedented step of starting her own business. It was an exciting, terrifying year in our family history, and since a fledgling entrepreneur like my mother couldn't afford either office rent or child care, I ended up spending a lot of time in the home office my mother made of our basement. Every day after school I'd walk down the steps to the basement, to spend my evenings reading or doing homework at a spare desk in the corner. More often than not, I'd fall asleep under the conference table before Mom was able to get away, and she'd have to carry me upstairs to bed when her workday finally ended.
I have to say that, despite being distracted by a thousand pressing worries, my mother never forgot just how hard spending so much time in an adult environment could be on a child. She always made sure that we spent the dinner hour eating together, even if that dinner was a frozen meal hurriedly heated in the office's microwave and eaten at her desk between phone calls. And at least once a week she visited the city's teaching supply company where she could get good deals on art supplies and craft kits to keep me occupied. I had crayons and poster paints and modeling clay galore, all tucked into my very own drawer at the bottom of her filing cabinet. And then one day she bought me The Beads.
The fact that I refer to The Beads with capital letters does not mean they were expensive by any means. Made of plastic and purchased by the pound -- I think my mother paid seven dollars for a five pound bag -- they were hardly the stuff award-winning jewelry is made of. But they were colorful, made of a bright, pure, translucent plastic that sparkled in the sunlight like a pirate's hoard. And to my eight-year-old eyes they were the most beautiful things in the world. Mom helped me transfer them into Grandma's old canning jars so they would be easier to transport without spilling, and for the next two years I was a girl possessed, spending hours sorting The Beads by color and shape, painstakingly searching for matches I could string into jewelry. My mom bought me a cone of weaver's carpet warp, a strong, thick, white thread just the right weight for childish fingers to manage, and I made necklace after necklace, fascinated by the way the different colors blended together to make works of art. Some of these creations I wore to school or for make believe, transforming myself into a princess or a fairy queen. Most I gave to my mother, who wore one to every business meeting and power lunch with pride.
Looking at these necklaces now, strung on their finger-soiled cotton warp and finished by the simple expedient of tying the thread in a knot and leaving the ends to dangle (it would be years before I learned about clasps or crimp beads), part of me has to wonder if the whole reason Mom let me have them for the time capsule in the first place was her subtle way of getting out of wearing them. Still, when I can banish my inner critic and look at the necklaces honestly, I can see that they really are beautiful. The colors and shapes are blended together in surprisingly sophisticated ways, proving that even at eight, I was already playing with design in an effort to realize my own visions. And the love they represent -- the love of a mother taking time to nurture her daughter's creative spirit even under very trying circumstances, and the love of a daughter taking that nurturing and offering it back in beaded form -- is a beautiful thing indeed.
I had opened that time capsule expecting to see how much I had changed in the last twenty years, how much time and growth had transformed me. Instead, I am overwhelmed by how much of me has stayed the same. My braids are long gone, but I still wear glasses. I still pick up rocks that catch my eye when I'm walking to and from work. I still love animals and seem to spend an inordinate amount of time and money on keeping them fed. And yes, I still love beads, supplementing my income by selling hand knotted gemstone jewelry at craft fairs, and I still make necklaces for my mother. And she still wears them with pride.
So the woman that I am, and the girl that I was, are not so different after all -- instead we're inextricably connected. As connected as two beads glittering on the same strand.
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