{"id":48870,"date":"2025-08-31T12:05:00","date_gmt":"2025-08-31T16:05:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.westbendnews.net\/autonews\/?p=48870"},"modified":"2025-08-26T16:56:26","modified_gmt":"2025-08-26T20:56:26","slug":"see-you-later","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.westbendnews.net\/autonews\/see-you-later\/","title":{"rendered":"See You Later"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
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Dotting My Teas By:  Marlene Oxender <\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My friends who were successful at downsizing made it happen by moving into another home. That\u2019s all it took. Moving. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Boxing up everything we own is a big deal. Unboxing everything is an equally big deal. We\u2019re given the chance to examine each item \u2013 once while it\u2019s being packed and again when it\u2019s unpacked. Decisions are made to keep it, toss it, or find a new home for it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After the kids are grown and moved out of the house, our closets are full of items that tell the story of what was important over the years. Dance costumes mean there was a dancer in the home. Fishing poles mean someone liked the quiet of the great outdoors. Every home ends up with a unique collection. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Although we may try to own less stuff, the joy of finding a little treasure at a second-hand store or antique mall often wins, and we add another item to our collection. Garage sales can be a fun place to shop \u2013 especially if we\u2019re out for the day with friends.    <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I\u2019ve told my daughters I plan to leave a lot for them to sort through. They\u2019ll have fun reading the old newspaper clippings that are proof they grew up in a small town. And they are going to want some of their refrigerator artwork as well as their grade cards. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

After our mother passed away, my siblings and I gathered for weeks on end to clean and sort through the house we\u2019d grown up in. We needed a ladder to reach some of the boxes that\u2019d been stored in the huge closets in our parents\u2019 bedroom.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mom\u2019s collection included boxes of old buttons. Old military memorabilia. Old stuff that falls into the unwritten rule that many people from her generation followed: Don\u2019t throw it away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As each cardboard box was opened, I hoped for good stuff. Stuff I could write about. Or things that a sibling would take home with them \u2013 thus not requiring a decision. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Had I known we were going to find two small stuffed alligators that Jeanette and I had received when we were little girls, I would have recorded the moments when my sisters opened the box in which one of them had been stored for half a century. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was in the other room when I heard a loud gasp. Then another. Then questions about what is in that box. Followed by suggestions that someone else put their hand on that item and lift it from the box.   <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jeanette and I were young girls when we each received a baby alligator. They were gifts to us. Jeanette had used a crayon to write her name on the outside of the box. The alligator was in pristine condition because little girls don\u2019t play with things like that. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A photo of Jeanette\u2019s long-lost alligator was texted to her. She wrote back to tell us she didn\u2019t want her alligator, and we were to give it to a child who\u2019d have fun playing with it. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew it would take a few minutes before the second box, with my name on it, would be handed down by the person standing on the ladder. And it was \u2013 a box with my name on it is once again in my possession. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I agreed we should find a new owner for the alligators, and they ought to be played with. I took them home and placed them on the coffee table until I found someone who wanted them. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Over the next few weeks, the alligators became a conversation piece, and I was starting to become attached to them. I remember thinking I\u2019d just leave them on the coffee table. They were mine now. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I walked past them one day and found they\u2019d been pushed together \u2013 almost in a loving pose. I took a picture and decided it was time to find a place for them to reside in my home. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Since they fit nicely in front of the books on the shelves in my library, I moved them to their new perfect place. But every time I walked past them, I was reminded of the reason why they\u2019d been stored in a box: Girls don\u2019t want to decorate with reptiles. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

So fifty years after my mother had packed the alligators into their original box, I did the same thing. I used a step stool so I could reach the place where they\u2019d be tucked away. Where heat and humidity would not affect them. Where they could reside until someone unpacks them once again. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

A few years ago, I wrote about ostriches after finding a poem that\u2019d been sent to my sister from our neighbor Verna Gabriel. My online newsfeed picked up on the fact that I was interested in ostriches and continued to send articles through. Now I\u2019m seeing plenty of interesting stories about alligators.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When we were children, we often called our friends an alligator after telling them we\u2019d see them later, and they called us a crocodile in reply. And that may be the most any of us knows about alligators and crocodiles.    <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Those of us who write nonfiction never run out of writing prompts, for life is full of them. We just notice the ordinary things to be amazed by and start writing. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fiction writers, on the other hand, need ideas. They must come up with storylines such as talking with animals, or keeping an alligator as a pet, and off they go with their story. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the end of our life, we\u2019re all just one big story. We\u2019ve lived all the moments we were meant to live. We\u2019ll tell our loved ones we\u2019ll see them later. They\u2019ll tell us it may be a while, for they need to finish writing their story.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

And so it goes \u2013 we\u2019re separated for a while. We live with memories. With serendipities that make new memories. With a light that makes everything look different. With a bond that cannot be broken. With the promise of seeing each other later. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Marlene Oxender is a writer, speaker, and author. She writes about growing up in the small town of Edgerton, her ten siblings, the memorabilia in her parents\u2019 estate, and her late younger brother, Stevie Kimpel, who was born with Down syndrome. Her three published books, Picket Fences, Stevie and Grandma, You Already Am Old, are available on Amazon. Marlene can be reached at mpoxender@gmail.com<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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