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Marcia Miller-Twiford

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All The Generations That Were
By Marcia Miller-Twiford
Monday, February 23, 2009

Rated "G" by the Author.

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A true story I hope you will enjoy.


During this last weekend before I leave here preparations for my move are endless. The rooms are filled with packing boxes. The days are spent sorting through generations of possessions entrusted to me by those who have gone ahead. Major decisions must be made regarding what to take, and what to leave behind.

There, on the living room wall, hangs a portrait of a Civil War hero, uniform of blue and polished brass. Our famil history tells that he gave his many horses to General Grant. I look at it and gaze into the ever watchful eyes. Eyes that trust me that he will not be forgotten. I put it in the corner with the pictures of others who symbolize all the generations past. How can I leave any behind? I cannot. The large portrait is tagged to be boxed and wrapped. I will continue to protect the memories and the heritage.

I look at the silver punch bowl, sitting on its stand, and I know, beyond any doubt, that it will now make another journey across the sea, to another part of this country where my long-held dream is waiting for me. I remind myself that my family had their dreams too. Generation has passed it on to generation just as I will do. Sometimes it is a blessing to inherit and sometimes it is a burden. The challenge is in finding the blessing in the burden, which I have. No one will be forgotten. I will see to it, my children will see to it, and their children, and theirs.

This is my time to journey, and I wanted to leave here unencumbered. Most of my furniture I've given to my daughter. I'll not be able to leave with just my suitcases as I originally wanted to. For I now realize that I am nothing if not all those who lived before me. I carry their blood in my veins, and I look into my own eyes and see my Grandmother. I also recognize the set of my jaw as coming from the man who gave all his horses away for a cause. When I brush my hair I see my mother’s and think of how she worked two jobs to put herself through college in order for me to have a better life.

Once I'm settled, I will drink out of my great-great grandmother’s goblet from which so many have drunk before me. And I will look at the punch bowl and imagine its journey as it crossed the vast Atlantic Ocean on the Mayflower. It will sit shining proudly always reminding me. I will sip my coffee out of a cup which once belonged to the wife of the Civil War hero. I will look with love upon the portrait of the hero who fought that this time might be possible for someone, someday. The man who sacrificed himself that others could be free to follow their dreams.

My heart will be filled with pride of heritage, grateful that the history of this magnificent family has been lovingly entrusted to a woman who will someday soon write their story. That woman, with a heart full of love, will continue to polish everything, and she will protect it all. I can’t bear to part with anything. Little will be left behind. I don’t know where I’m going to put it all, but where there is a will there is a way.

The packing will soon be done, and I wait in anticipation, and absorb the dream I knew would someday be. I will, at last, return to the Hawaiian Islands, where my dream has all this time been waiting for me.

FOOTNOTE: Those "things" and I spent three years in Hawaii on the Big Island in Kailua-Kona but are now back home. Back home actually is not accurate. Hawaii will always be home to me and I hope to someday return to stay. Somewhere in my heritage there must have been a Gypsy, for there’s surely one in my soul.


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Reviewed by Flying Fox Ted L Glines 2/24/2009
I think you penned this especially for those who, like me, feel the voices and moods of cherished icons from our histories. There is a depth of spirit in that. Nice piece Sweetie :-)

Reviewed by Georg Mateos 2/24/2009
My generation wasn't accustomed to todays use and throw away, things passed down from great-great-grandmothers yo great-great-grandchildren were as holy as a promise given with an handshake.
Perhaps all those getting brown things were trash for some, but those things were carrying a history which didn't deserved a dustbin.


Reviewed by 000 000 2/23/2009
Parting with family heirlooms is always hard...but the memories stay until our mind fades them. Wishing you many happy Gypsy travels in the future!

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