china, silver, and company
The other night we had a dinner party, and used all the china and crystal and silver, as we like to do. My family has always cherished beautiful things, and has always had them to cherish. The china we used belonged to my great-aunt and has been in the family for nearly a century; same with the silver. The new crystal is for our grandchildren to cherish.
The act of drying the china and silver and polishing it to put away awakened memories of doing the same thing in childhood years, and of the Christmases, Thanksgivings, Easters, rehearsal dinners, birthdays, anniversaries, and special events that brought that china and silver out to be used. I found myself taking delight in what I'd once considered drudgework. Even the tingling sound brought back memories of grandmothers and aunts and uncles long dead but whose personalities still live in these molecules, who also cherished beautiful things, and who also believed that people who love each other should gather often and well.
I thought of my mom's mother and my dad's mother, very different women who shared the same belief that there's nothing that shouldn't be done well, and nothing that shouldn't be done beautifully too. I think of my great-great-great aunt Lizzie, whose gorgeous forks we used, and her husband's idea that there's nothing that shouldn't be done with a smile: it shows in the forks. (I'll tell you that story sometime.) I thought of the prayers they prayed over these molecules: Mothers' day 1936, weeks after my Dad's birth; Christmas 1959, weeks after my parents married; Thanksgiving of 1962, with their second son born and the Cuban missile crisis just over. Easter with cancer, Christmas without grandmothers. My first dinner with Catherine. Thanksgiving of 1942, and 45. I thought of laughs laughed, stories told again, old and young breaking bread together.
Turns out we had lots of company for dinner.
The act of drying the china and silver and polishing it to put away awakened memories of doing the same thing in childhood years, and of the Christmases, Thanksgivings, Easters, rehearsal dinners, birthdays, anniversaries, and special events that brought that china and silver out to be used. I found myself taking delight in what I'd once considered drudgework. Even the tingling sound brought back memories of grandmothers and aunts and uncles long dead but whose personalities still live in these molecules, who also cherished beautiful things, and who also believed that people who love each other should gather often and well.
I thought of my mom's mother and my dad's mother, very different women who shared the same belief that there's nothing that shouldn't be done well, and nothing that shouldn't be done beautifully too. I think of my great-great-great aunt Lizzie, whose gorgeous forks we used, and her husband's idea that there's nothing that shouldn't be done with a smile: it shows in the forks. (I'll tell you that story sometime.) I thought of the prayers they prayed over these molecules: Mothers' day 1936, weeks after my Dad's birth; Christmas 1959, weeks after my parents married; Thanksgiving of 1962, with their second son born and the Cuban missile crisis just over. Easter with cancer, Christmas without grandmothers. My first dinner with Catherine. Thanksgiving of 1942, and 45. I thought of laughs laughed, stories told again, old and young breaking bread together.
Turns out we had lots of company for dinner.
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