Remembering

The other day, for some reason, I was reminded of something from my childhood. After school, we'd play with friends or go outside, or just hide out in our rooms. Anyway, because there were a few of us to round up for dinner, at some point, my parents invested in a cowbell, which became the new system for announcing dinner. Someone would take the bell and ring it through the house, in the backyard, and on the porch, and we would hear it and come running for dinner (well, probably not always running). We (at least I) loved to be the one to ring the dinner bell. I honestly don't know why, because it wasn't the melodious sound, but then again, it was noisy, and we were kids, so that pretty much explains it. The bell sat on the back of the stove, and it wasn't uncommon for it to get knocked off as one passed by, or when the oven door was slammed shut (don't ask me why that might happen), and it would clang into the cast iron skillet that always sat on the stove.

I haven't thought about that bell in ages, and had kind of forgotten it. I don't even know when it faded from usage, but it was such a part of day to day life growing up that it seems a shame that it be forgotten. As an archivist (I can claim that title, even though I'm not employed yet, right?) I look at a lot of important records, but it seems to me that sometimes the most valuable records are the ones that remind us about everyday life for everyday people. Because a cowbell is totally normal, right?