Pressed

Since a very young age, I've pressed leaves and other plant material between the pages of books -- a craft I believe instilled in me by my paternal grandma.

Last night, as I continued my electronics abstinence, I found myself perusing a bookcase that held many a care-worn cover reaching back to my childhood; feeling nostalgic, I selected Jack and Jill by Louisa May Alcott. As I flipped through the chapters I came upon folded pieces of wax paper between pages 152 and 159. Inside were several faded but intact beech and maple leaves. I hadn't opened this book for a long, long time so the dried and waxed leaves had to be at least 35 years old. As I sat there cross-legged on the floor, marveling at the discovery, I tumbled back in time to the season and place the leaves were collected: an autumn afternoon at my aunt and uncle's home in Ross County on an Autumn afternoon. Alcott's book had traveled with me that day and I remember sitting on a swing hung between the two big oaks, engrossed in her story. As I looked at the leaves, delightful recollections flooded my mind of hikes through the woods, sled rides down the hill and onto the pond, and family gatherings round the kitchen table with my grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. It was indeed a special childhood.

So many of my treasured memories are like those pressed leaves: stored away in a safe, accessible place just waiting to be taken out and enjoyed. I've found that whether from long ago or more recent times, those memories also remain intact yet gilded with emotions that make them more beloved than ever.