The little Mount Hope spoon saga has spawned research, international dialogue (one might call it an international incident!) and the meeting of new friends. It has even occasioned newspaper articles. Just one little spoon. It has made for marvelous story telling. A friend of mine told me:
" Wow! all this from the finding of a tiny spoon,
imagine what would happen with a knife and fork!!!"
In reality, though, the spoon itself is not the point, is it? The point is the story, especially the story of that long ago small 15 bed Mount Hope hospital being spoken of, respected and loved once again. It is the story of a child that was once gifted with this beautiful silver piece, the parents who treasured it and the woman who grew from that child to treasure it herself. It is the story of the other women, one who found it and the one who was shown the spoon and cared enough to go looking for its owner. Four thousand miles away from where the spoon was born. Connecting with a blogger in Florida from a missionary outpost in an interior spot in Brazil.
Nancy and Leonor are now in contact with each other in Brazil. It is now theirs to do as they wish. Someday we will know more. But, in the meantime I believe this is an experience of the preciousness of things of meaning that we save and the stories we tell. The spoon took me on an excursion into a foreign land and the Portuguese language I need to learn. Thank heavens for Bing and Google translation in the meantime. It connected me with the good work of a family of missionaries working among poor gypsies. It connected me with another woman who has lived on three continents.
I sit at my desk and conjure stories from my past, sharing it with others and hearing the echo of that loved past from around the world. Now and then something shines like a star, like this.
It is a troubled time we live in, getting more so all the time. We must find comfort where we may.
We get older, and our energy lessens and our bodies are not what they used to be. How wonderful to live again in memory the laughter of yesterday and mingle it with that of today….what strength!
I recently described this blog as a "work of heart". Somehow that is the best way to speak of this project of love. I so regret the questions not asked before I lost those who could have answered them. Now, in my elder years I scramble to mine my own memories and those of others.
Blessedly, that can still be done. But, if I had done it sooner, how much more there would have been to pass down. We lived in a place so unique it cannot be replicated, in a time crossing over many boundaries. Growing into our teen years we started our own marches across the border of the Village and out into the wider world. Our steps, our new relationships and careers took us off into far horizons.
My own journey certainly did.
As we went so many separate ways, the Village wrapped us in threads of gossamer. I and others have been attempting to rewind those threads again, uncovering the treasures gathered in the strands of those years. As I speak with others who shared my growing up the emotion is always the same. Who will understand? Who remembers?
Native Americans treasure their stories, and tell them over and over until they form the fabric of a collective history that strengthens each family, each person giving rise to an identity that is part of parcel of a woven beauty.
When Pope Francis went to Rio de Janeiro for the World Youth Conference, my husband and I watched it all. He is historical, this Pope, and watching him and his witness a joy. But, for me a huge joy was hearing the Portuguese language spoken over and over. It took me back to the music of the Village that was the lullaby of my childhood.
