We were cleaning out the drawers of the two bedside tables in Mom's bedroom. My nephew will be driving a van full of some of her stuff up to Chicago later this month, so my brother and I were preparing things for him.
One of the things about my parents is that they never threw anything away. We moved seven times between my birth and graduation. Yet even now, Mom's house has things I remember from childhood. And I'm not talking just about china, furniture and keepsakes - I'm talking about the same bathroom wastebasket, the same saucepans, the same cheese grater with the broken handle ("It still works.")
I found this pink florist's note in the table on Dad's side. It had a pressed, crumpled pink grosgrain ribbon attached. This note would have been written in September, 1945.
Dad and Mom met at the University of Texas, when, struggling in Chemistry Lab, he asked the best student in class to help him study. They had a whirlwind romance, and were married in April of 1945. They were together until Dad passed away in early 2002.
When I showed it to Mom, she smiled. He was always buying her flowers back then, she said, even when he couldn't afford them.