Our lives are made up of stories.

No matter how mundane the story seems, each one impacts us and the people with whom we share it.

When all my stories are put together, that compilation will be the narrative of my life.

My parents were married in 1951.

Dad was stationed with the Air Force in Kansas City, Missouri. These newlyweds rented, as their first home, a curtained-off portion of a basement in a house owned by a woman on Virginia Street.

A humble abode it was.

When I came along, surprisingly to me, Mom had a diaper service. How she and Dad afforded that luxury, I do not know. Maybe it was a gift.

Anyway, clean diapers were brought in and soiled diapers were taken away. I believe they also had milk delivered.

A deliveryman, be it of diapers or milk or some other item I don’t know about, was in Mom’s kitchen one day as she was washing dishes.

One item she placed into the draining tray was a sharp knife, and Mom stood it with the sharp point facing up.

The deliveryman reached for the knife.

He said to Mom, “You’re going to cut yourself, Sweetheart. Always stand your sharp knives in the drainer with the blades pointing down.”

Maybe you expected a different kind of story when I mentioned a deliveryman reached for a knife in my young mother’s kitchen.

But that is the totality of the story my mother told me when I was older.

Times were different. People may have been more trustworthy then. Calling a young woman “sweetheart” in the way this man did was not considered sexist or offensive.

How many times do you suppose I have thought of that man’s advice to my mother?

I have thought of it as many times as I have placed a knife in a dish drainer or into my dishwasher.

I always position the knife with the sharp end pointing down.

Possibly that man’s words prevented my mom or me from cutting ourselves badly.

Little life stories may turn out to be significant or irrelevant. We don’t know, as they happen, what effect they may have.

But this much is certain. A steady stream of good life stories makes for a happy narrative.

My mother and me at our first home in Kansas City, Missouri, in 1952.

13 thoughts on “STORIES”

  1. Oh yes, I remember hearing this story! I watch so much true crime on tv that I almost wondered where you were going with the story. 🙃 I love this post. And I LOVE the picture. ❤️

  2. Debbie, my thoughts were already running down the path that he was going to harm your mom… Guess times were definitely different! I’m glad it was good advice and a kind act done instead. The photo of you and your mother is precious!

    1. Thank you, Pearl. Someetimes, you just need to write what is in your heart. Wait! ALL THE TIME, you need to write what is in your heart. You are a wonderful encouragement to me! Sending you a hug!

  3. YOU are a part of my story, too, Debbie. And I’m so thankful you are. I’m sure I’ll remember this story now whenever I place my knives, point down, in my drainboard. Hugs to you always!

    1. Becky, I am woefully behind in communicating with you. I’ve been saving your blog posts to read and comment on when the Christmas swirling subsides. Busyness is a curse sometimes. Thank you for your beautiful and loving comment.

  4. Such a beautiful photo of you with your mother! I always refer to my grandfather as my ‘gentle giant’ because he had a soft and easy demeanor although he was a tall and seemingly powerful man. The simple stories are what weave the fabric of our life together. You captured this perfectly.

    1. You are right, Maggie. Those simple stories come together to form lifetimes. I am thankful to have so many good memories. My maternal grandfather was also a gentle giant. I loved him and was blessed to have him living close-by as I grew up.

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