Fancy Packing

I forgot to tell you something about my mother. She’s the one who mailed Dad’s engagement ring to me uninsured “because I didn’t like the looks of the woman at the post office.” She hadn’t wanted the agent to know something valuable was inside the box.

Whenever I go East, I try to pack up an item or two that had been given to me earlier by my mother or father. For my siblings it’s a matter of tossing it into the car after a visit, but with my transcontinental flights it’s a more gradual process. An antique gun one trip, some telephone insulators the next, and so on.

After this visit I had lots of space in my suitcase because I’d brought some bulky presents. So I was determined to pack my 1800s Austrian still and two antique whiskey bottles.

I emerged from Mom’s attic with an armload of toilet paper rolls. “Do you mind if I take these for padding?”

“Oh, no. Put them back. I need them.”

“But—”

“We’ll find something else. How about some old dishtowels?”

Her old dishtowels make mine look like — well — old toilet paper.

I smooshed the dishtowels around the fragile items in my suitcase, but it wasn’t enough. Any sane person wouldn’t even have considered putting such delicate and beloved stuff in a suitcase for a flight to begin with.

“Small?” I called. For I call my mother Small. “I’m still going to need some toilet paper.”

“No. How about this tablecloth instead?” she offered.

It was nothing fancy but, again, better than anything I have. I accepted it and arranged it protectively around my treasures. Still, I realized they’d never make the trip without better cushioning.

“Small, I still need more padding. Can I just—”

“No. Come here.” She led me to the dining room and pointed to an intricate, small Persian rug. It had been promised to me after she pops off (her words) but not before. “I think it would be good padding. Take it.”

“Now? But…”

“The need is now.”

Back to my room I went, unpacking, rewrapping, tucking, twisting. It wasn’t enough. I was at my wit’s end.

“Mom, I really need a few rolls of toilet paper. I’ll buy new ones before I leave. Please. Just little more stuffing so these things don’t break. Paper towels would work, too.”

She walked through the house, looking high and low. It was clear that no one was going to touch her paper products.

“Do you have an old pillow?”

“No.”

“What about some old towels you don’t use?”

“No. Hmmm… I know!”

It was a beautiful handmade quilt from my West Virginia: all bright yellows and blues and full of cheer.

And with that packing material, everything was sufficiently secured. And everything made the trip home without breakage.

I write this while glancing at the cheerful quilt at my left elbow, and the scarlet magic carpet on the floor to my right.

Man, it’s hard having a mother who’s stingy about toilet paper. I’ve had to go to Costco and buy my own.

I would like my reader to fill in their own moral for this story.