“We Both Succeeded, Yet We Both Failed”

My grandchildren were due to visit for the afternoon, and I was cleaning a room at the far end of my house. When I turned off the vacuum, I heard a car door shutting. A peek out the window confirmed they’d arrived.  

I didn’t want to miss the greeting at my front door, so I took off for the other part of the house, hoping to jump out and startle them. And there would be laughter.

I didn’t know my grandson Thomas had the same thought. He was heading through the house as an eight-year-old does. 

We unexpectedly found each other as we were rounding a corner between the living room and dining room. We were both startled. Neither one of us had a chance to purposely scare each other – because we were too busy being scared by each other. If that makes sense.  

Thomas wanted to know if he’d scared me. I didn’t want to admit it, but he had. Just a little. He smiled as he had to admit that I’d scared him – but just a little.  

My daughter then walked into the house, and we told her what had happened. Thomas summarized the story with, “We both succeeded, yet we both failed.”

I wrote down his words, so I wouldn’t forget them. 

The two of us had admitted to having been a little scared. That must mean there is such a thing as a medium scare. And a big scare.      

A friend of mine very much dislikes being intentionally scared by others. Her family always knew they’d best not scare her, for it would not end well.

I can appreciate where she is coming from. When we’ve been startled, we are stunned for at least a few seconds. We’re not necessarily happy. Then we’re expected to laugh – which seems easier to do when we’re a child.   

Then there are the fears unique to children. Sleeping outside in a tent seems like a grand idea – until darkness arrives. Our mind tells us the outdoor monster or an animal of some sort could be lurking close by. The decision to head indoors for the night is made.

My grandchildren have always been intrigued by the walk-in attic in our home. But they’re too frightened to go into the attic by themselves. The door is not only narrow, it’s short. Adults have to lean down in order to fit through the opening.      

It could be the old Halloween mask, hanging on a peg in the attic, which makes the place even more spooky for children. The poor mask isn’t taking up any valuable space, so I let him be. I can’t throw him away. He’s become vintage. I’ve offered him to others, but so far no takers. So there he remains – setting the spooky tone for all who enter.

Our grandchildren like to venture into the attic to find a board game or an item to take home. Much like characters in a cartoon, they walk single file; carrying a flashlight isn’t necessary but adds to the adventure.    

The day came when we noticed our oldest grandson, Toby, was willing to lead the way into the attic. He opens the little door, turns on the light, and takes the first to step into the grandparent cave. His cousins follow behind and begin the search for something to be intrigued by.

What happens next is predictable. One of them will act upon the impulse to scare the others. There are screams as they run away in an attempt to escape the invisible threat. They must exit through the tiny door in which they had entered.

It sounds as if they could tumble over each other on the way down the steps. They’re lost in laughter as they tell their version of what just happened before heading back up the stairs for more good times together.

A friend of mine once pointed out that estates are full of items with a story behind them, but rarely does the story follow the item.   

Our collections are simply a reflection of what holds our interest. Men collect things like fishing lures, vintage cars, postage stamps, and coins.

Women often collect glassware and things that need to be dusted. Women will admit they own too much fabric and too many skeins of yarn. Too many books and too many puzzles.

I imagine we’ve all had moments of questioning why we put any value in things that collect dust. Things we already have too many of. Yet we have fun at estate sales. We’ll mosey through antique malls knowing another item may find its way home with us.

Another way of looking at it may be to simply acknowledge our collections as a sign of a life well-lived. Signs that our walk on earth has been a beautiful thing.    

Years ago, Genevieve Youse and her daughter Jacque paid an afternoon visit to my home. Her Uncle Martin and Aunt Clela Holt had lived in our house for many years.  

Visiting a home where we’d spent time as a child can bring back fond memories. The architecture in the house is proof that some things never change. The fireplace is still there, and the staircase is as grand as ever. The interior doors are the same. Even the doorknobs are the same doorknobs we placed our hands upon so many years ago. The garage and breezeway still smell like work. We can be in awe.   

I won’t forget Genevieve’s smile and confident tone as she told me she’d like something that once belonged to her to be in our home. She then gifted us with an antique toothpick holder. To this day, her little gift remains on our kitchen windowsill, and it reminds me of her and the day she visited.   

Back in the early 1970s when my Grandma and Grandpa Imm’s estate was being sorted, I was given a salt-and-pepper shaker set that once sat on their living room desk. I remember being happy I’d received this little item – a boy and girl sitting on a bench. Resting. Kissing.

Now my home is the place where memories are being made. Where my grandchildren will learn that love will take us through narrow doors. And spooky places. That love will see us through big scares and little scares. Through times of trouble. Through perceived failures. Through many successes.    

Perhaps love is like a resting place. A place where someone leads the way and holds open the door. And it’s the memories of love that see us through.