I was shocked when she wrote on the sheetrock at the new place, but I realized new sheetrock won’t matter to me when I’m dead.
I got over it.
Before moving out of our old house, I had to take a bunch of photos of the dates and names scribbled up the kitchen wall before we repainted. No one moving into a new place cares how tall you all were.
We didn’t either; it was simply a way to document visits, birthdays, graduations. You know; life with a family.
Some evenings, it became a competition between the kids. The girls growing tall early, making fun of the boys. The tables turned around the twelfth or thirteenth birthdays for the lads, them taking the lead and keeping it, mostly. I remember one nephew doing some light stretching before standing straight at the wall, the rest of us pointing out that he wasn’t flat-footed. He laughed and suddenly lost a quarter of an inch.
Cousins, nephews, aunts, uncles, sisters, brothers, and my Mom and Dad. All the lines were there. Poor penmanship prevailed, probably because of post-turkey day comas and excessive hand shaking from two cups of coffee instead of the usual one. Black ink, blue ink, and, of course, the faded leavings of Ticonderoga #2 pencil lead.
Until the other day at the ranch on the knoll, only two dates and penciled-in lines marked the wall beside our new refrigerator. One from my granddaughter, and one for my grandson.
The grandson grew 2 and 3/4 inches in ten months. He didn’t care, but someday he will. We marked it.
The Granddaughter wasn’t here long enough to get her to the wall; next time.
Sheetrock was meant to be marked and scarred, and pencil marks can be erased. If you want.
I don’t.
Nope. I don’t.
Photos are wonderful, but you can log solid documentation of time in inches if you take a moment.
Keep your hands to yourself, leave other people’s things alone, and be kind to one another.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC