One young woman’s found object becomes a portal to her past

by JoBeth Crump

When I went outside to get my schoolbooks from the car, a cool, brisk wind that came with the previous week’s long rains surprised me. As I rushed back to the porch wearing only shorts, a T-shirt and slippers, I noticed a child’s umbrella in the corner

There are no children living in our house. My youngest sibling is 17 years old. So I picked it up and brought it to my parents for possible answers.

Because of its miniature size and the Sesame Street characters depicted on the alternating purple and clear panels, this umbrella obviously belonged to a child. The gang is all there, including Elmo, the Cookie Monster, Big Bird, and Burt and Ernie. To match the purple panels, the J-shaped handle of the umbrella is made of purple rubber, and it is old. Some of the metal parts are rusted, and it smells like the inside of our garage, or the “other house” as my parents call it. It’s a strong scent of gasoline and mothballs.

One of the metal pieces that allow the umbrella to fully expand and take shape is broken. Multiple holes in the top of the umbrella appear where many tried to open it, forcing up a broken metal spoke. If you didn’t mind a couple of holes and a drooping broken metal arm, the umbrella might still be functional.

My umbrella

As I entered the room, my Dad was adjusting his belt and gun holster. He made his final checks in the mirror to straighten his uniform, then walked over to my Mom to kiss her goodbye. These days, it isn’t unusual to find my Mom sitting atop multiple files and papers while talking on the phone and typing on her mini-computer. They stopped at the sight of me holding this small purple item.  Grins appeared, and suddenly I realized whose umbrella it was.

From Sesame Street to the front porch

My Dad walked over to me and asked whether I remembered it.

“I didn’t even know whose this was,” I said.

He reached over to show me the tag on the handle. My voice softened as I read, “JoBeth Crump, 52 Cliffbrink Ave., Lindale, GA.”

My Mom explained that she had used it after leaving her large umbrella in her car, and then tossed it into the yard. Dad later picked it up and placed it on the porch.

I immediately ran into the family room to try to fix my old umbrella with a paperclip and duct tape. I refashioned the broken metal arms together with the paperclip and used the tape to patch the holes.

As I eagerly fixed the forgotten old umbrella, I began to remember the time when this colorful little object was once important to me in our house on Cliffbrink Avenue. I was only 3 years old then, so the tag on my umbrella couldn’t have been to notify a teacher or daycare worker. The handwriting on the tag wasn’t in cursive or written in a hurry. It did not reflect my Mom’s chicken scratch or my Dad’s tightly squeezed cursive writing that I see today.

The bubbly letters on this small umbrella’s tag were crafted with care for a little girl to feel a sense of ownership. I fixed the umbrella that I barely remembered, but I feel as though I was trying to fix something else.

A remnant from childhood

I miss the old Cliffbrink house. The simple and amusing activities, like kicking a ball with my older brother up the enormously steep driveway and waiting for it to bounce back now seem distant.

Now that I have grown, the old driveway looks more like a small dip. I miss when my grandparents would “randomly” visit our house bearing presents and home-cooked food. Both of my grandfathers are no longer with us, and I am lucky if I get see my grandmothers once a year. My family seemed very close in the Cliffbrink house. We were young and didn’t have a choice.

Before college, I couldn’t wait to leave the house and be independent from my family. I now live in a dorm that can feel cold. When I picked up this small colorful umbrella, I felt the warmth of my old family in the old Cliffbrink house.

I realize that the Cliffbrink house has disappeared, and so has my old family.