Jul 07, 2008

We returned to the house from our cabin for a day last week. We had lawn to mow and mail to retrieve. And I knew there would be a box on my porch. I hadn’t really told the kids about this package, but I thought about it during the entire 45-minute drive.

When we pulled into the driveway, I saw it sitting there, but told myself I’d get it in a minute. As usual, we had loads to carry in, and would use the garage door, rather than the one on the porch. The kids helped me haul in the cabin basket filled with whatever we thought we’d need for the overnight stay, got the dog out of the car, and Darla grabbed the pile of mail that had accumulated in our mailbox.

Once everything had been dropped on the floor and kitchen counter, Craig took off to see his buddies, and Darla started sorting the mail. I quietly walked to the porch door and opened it, picking up the small cardboard box I’d been waiting to open. It was light and unassuming, yet I felt my heart beat faster as I read the return address label.

I carried it to the counter next to Darla and dug around for scissors in the junk drawer. Darla sifted through the mail, planning to open the ubiquitous credit card applications, and get a few fake cards for a make-believe game she plays with her friends.

I sliced through the clear packaging tape while Darla chatted about what I considered the useless pile of garbage she’d retrieved from the mailbox. She probably assumed my box was one of the regular ones that comes from Office Depot, addressed to my company.

“Can I use this Visa card? It says. ‘John Smith,’” she asked.

“Sure,” I said as I sliced through the clear packaging tape.

“Oh, I think this one’s a bill — I’ll put it over here,” she told me.

“Sounds good,” I said, removing the kraft-colored filler paper from the box.

There they were. Five of them. Crisp and shiny, a bright green, with blue and black lettering. The pdf file image really didn’t do them justice. They were beautiful — and mine.

I pulled out the top copy of my brand-new book, and held it with both hands up near my face. I could still smell the fresh printing. The scent of ink and paper lingered, even on this small pile of books. Then I quietly said, “Darla look.”

She turned her head away from her project, and her face lit up with both surprise and excitement. But most touching was the way she spoke – like a mother might speak to her daughter, her heart swollen with pride.

“Congratulations, Mom!”

She’d been with me on so many steps of publishing. She listened to my half of the interview conversations on the phone. She watched me during those months at the keyboard. Then she celebrated with me as I held the book in my hands. And now she confidently tells her friends,

“My mom’s an author.”

Other torch-passers:
Phat Mommy – The Lemonade Stand – Sell What People Want

ptt-button.jpgWhat does passing the torch mean to you? Is it teaching? Passing traditions? Or good news about youth? Join us each week for Pass the Torch Tuesday.Former PTT posts.

Each weekend I share moments that help me journey toward occasional “presence” — explained in A New Earth — to enjoy life and appreciate small gifts. This post is also a part of Fussy’s Happiness Project every Thursday.

 



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