Jay D Weaver's Thought for the Week

Souvenirs

Mary and I are hoping to move into a retirement home this summer. We have already begun sorting through our things, both treasures and junk. some of this stuff has followed us from one home to another.There are several collections that have always been a part of our home. No matter how often we moved, it was only a matter of days before these collections redeveloped in our new home. They are as follows :

A drawer containing all kinds of odds and ends such as keys that are unidentifiable, various screws and nuts, pieces of cloth, part of a small tablet, several pencils, and lots of things whose purpose is no longer known.

A pile of papers that have not yet found a permanent place to be filed. There is an old calendar, some recipes from a magazine, some old birthday cards, some newspaper clippings, some unfinished drawings, an instruction booklet for a new telephone, and lots of papers which seem to have no meaning at all.

Several cartons containing old un-filed photographs, old report cards, brochures from a trip taken in the past, a high school sports letter, an old pennant, and many other souvenirs for whose reason for saving them is long forgotten.

Many of these things are never thrown away. We are all pack rats of a sort. We cannot bear to part with these things even though most of them no longer hold any meaning in our lives. My Aunt Mabel, who was ninety-five years old when she died several years ago, had some of these treasures in her room at Landis Homes where she lived. One such item, a book entitled "Heart Throbs," contains lots of old writings and poems. One of the poems fits our discussion this week. It is entitled "A Souvenir." The author is unknown.

A Bunch of Violets

A Souvenir

I found them in a book last night,
These withered violets:
A token of that early love
That no man e'er forgets.
Pressed carefully between the leaves,
They keep their color still,
I cannot look at them today
Without an old-time thrill.

Ah me, what tricks does memory play!
The passing years have fled,
And hopes that lived in vigor once,
Alas! have long been dead.
And this is all that I can say,
When all is said and done,
Those flowers remind me of some girl--
I wish I knew which one!

- Author Unknown

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