Erin Foytlin

Professor Heeb

ENGL 1109

Growing Roots

When we think about bookshelves, we usually imagine one or two things, a dusty old
hunk of wood holding books nobody's touched in years or a wonderland of imagination just
waiting to be discovered. In my case, I see memories of my young mother’s dedication. My mom
and dad were young parents working full-time trying to make it in the early 2000s, right before
the Great Recession, when we lived in a tiny house with my four other siblings, two older and
two younger. My little sister and I shared a room growing up, so we shared everything, including
furniture. One day, My mom started painting one of those dusty old bookshelves I never noticed
we had, painting a blue sky with fluffy clouds and green grass with tall flowers growing above.
She told us it’s our new bookshelf for our bedtime books. From then on, that bookshelf never
left; it held the ever-changing books I read growing up, from Cat In The Hat to Twilight. Not
knowing where it came from until I grew up. My old bookshelf means everything to me because
it reminds me of all the hard work my mother would do for us, how much I love my mom, and
how love gets passed down in our family.

Later in life, my father wasn't around, and it was just my mom taking care of now six kids by
herself. She used to work a lot before, but it was rare that I saw her not working after my father
left. She didn’t talk much anymore, constantly stressed out and exhausted. Watching my mom do
everything she could for us made me grateful towards her, but resent her. “Why can’t she spend
more time with me?” “Why doesn’t she talk to me?” “Why is she always busy?” I didn’t
understand the pressure my mother was under at the time, and it wasn’t until I was older that I
started looking at the big picture. When I look at that bookshelf now, I see all of my mother's
hard work. Every late night, every stressed morning. My mom worked hard to make us feel
special, even if it meant taking the time to repaint something close to her heart for us to enjoy.
Her love was the driving force.

The bookshelf was initially passed down to my mother from my great-grandmother. My mom
had a very close relationship with her grandmother and kept the bookshelf after her passing,
holding on to it for as long as I could remember. Before my mom painted it, You could tell it was
old, as in the 1960s old if not earlier. It smelled like musky old books and felt like a tree with no
bark. I’m sure my mom repainted it because of how old it looked in the first place, but at five
years old, I thought that bookshelf looked cool, not realizing its age. I admired it more because I
watched my mother paint it for us, the same mom that worked all the time. At the end of a long
day's work, she'd still be there at bedtime to read us a story from that bookshelf the same way her
grandmother would. Even as a teenager, I felt connected to my mom and my great-
grandmother’s love through that bookshelf. Two hardworking woman’s love existed through a
hunk of wood, creating generations of love that were passed down in a way that you usually
wouldn’t expect. My mother worked so much because she loved me, and it was because she
loved me that she gave me something so valuable to her and someone she loved, adding a piece
of herself to it for her children to remember.

I love my mom for what she had to sacrifice for us, and I was resentful because I just wanted her
to be around. You don’t realize how much you miss things until they're gone, and that was one of
those moments. I love how that bookshelf makes me feel because it reminds me of how my mom
made me feel. With that bookshelf, She exposed me to books that stayed with me; she even
taught me how to read my first book. My mom is the reason I like to read to this day. When I see
the real clouds and the real blue sky above me, I think of my amazing mother and how much I
love her and miss her reading me stories. I’ll never forget how much love I felt with that
bookshelf in my life.

That bookshelf brought us together the same way it brought her and her grandmother together;
that feeling of love grows and manifests itself into our souls. It becomes who we are, we express
that love outwardly, and others feel it. When I have children, that love will continue, adding to
the love my mother gave me and the love from her mother so on and so forth. That’s what I love
most about family; no matter what, we take care of each other even in ways we take for granted.
People might see a dusty old hunk of wood, but we see generations of love and connection to my
family. We see a chance to teach, connect, and care for each other. That green grass and tall
flowers tell me, “I love you!”