If I miss Carol from Herberger’s, imagine how much I miss my mother.
The store has been closed for years in Alexandria, but I can’t forget them. Her. Carol, in the shipping department used to save boxes that my mother would pick up at the back door and bring to me in Minneapolis. The recycling was nice. The money I saved was greatly appreciated. The extra bonds with my mom and hometown, priceless.
I was making a box yesterday to ship two paintings. I’ve gathered the cardboard from goods received, and from local stores. We are a country away here in France. Certainly they’ve never handled the boxes, but there is no doubt in my mind (or most likely my heart) that they have been touched by both of these women.
With each painting, I’m including the palette they were created from. It is a history of how the paint was applied. But there is so much more. I hope they can feel it, as they open the box (and believe me, there will be time — I really pack them!). Because I am there. Six years old, handing my mother the crayoned sheet of paper with all of my feelings of the day. My mother is inside, driving her little red Focus, straight from the hands of Herberger’s Carol, packed to the roof, barely seeing out the rear view, smiling in the direction of Minneapolis. Inside the tape and bubble are all the laughter and tears in between. Across the USA. Across the sea. And surprisingly, it all fits inside that box.
I have to laugh when filling out the international forms. They want a description of what’s inside, but they never allow enough space. How could they imagine, besides the paintings, are two women and a department store? And yet, they add no weight. I suppose nothing is lighter than joy.
