I realize now, the guilt was baked inside the china. It was always about the damned china.
My grandparents were “as poor as church mice” (their words) when they got married. My grandmother, motherless, the only child of an Italian immigrant working as a milkman in New York City. My grandfather, born in 1909, the youngest boy of 11 in a family so poor they wore clothes homemade from flour sacks, and burned the coals they’d picked up from along the railroad track.
My grandfather slowly worked his way up from bank teller, hired because he had graduated high school and could play baseball for the bank team, to Vice President of HR by his retirement in the early 1970s.
It wasn’t until the 50s, when my parents had already met and were courting long distance between Maine and NY, that my grandparents began to experience some quiet affluence in their lives. They’d scrimped and saved and were finally moving to the suburbs to their first (and only) house. My grandmother got to furnish a home in the most modern blonde-wood furniture from top to bottom. My parents became engaged during the time my father was stationed in Japan during the Korean conflict. It must have been an incredibly exciting time for both mother and daughter.
A sure sign of affluence in those postwar days was to own things, and my grandmother jumped right on that bandwagon. What she wanted most was a set of china. China meant you’d made it – you could afford something so fragile that you were almost afraid to use it. My mother, too, wanted a set of china plates for her wedding. This was going to be expensive.
My father came to the rescue – near the base where he was stationed in Japan was a china factory. They must have done a brisk business with American GIs. My father, through the mail, sent pattern ideas home to my mother and grandmother, who were able to basically design what they wanted – a plate with a simple gold rim and a pink rose in the middle. This was a far less expensive way to purchase china than going through an American department store and, they had something totally unique. They decided to purchase a set of 12; each one of them would have six settings. They could share when they needed to as my parents planned to settle in the suburbs nearby after their wedding. Back home, they purchased the same silver setting – 8 sets for each household – in a lovely, simple rose pattern to match the plates.
Later on, here was the rub. They had something totally unique. Heaven forbid you should break a plate.
Growing up, I remember china moving back and forth between our houses when needed. My grandmother almost never entertained, so the bulk was with us. There were serving pieces added over the years. I really had no idea the extent of what was there.
When I got married, I never got to pick out a china pattern of my own. I was always told that when the time came, I’d have a set of 12. I don’t think they expected me to live 4 hours away from home. My mother quickly came to realize that marrying into a large family I’d need something for entertaining, so she bought me a cheap set of 16 plates I never would have chosen for myself at a registry. They could go in the dishwasher. They were ugly, but I never looked back.
I told myself that if I’d had the good china, it just would have been a headache – always worrying about my in-laws breaking it or not washing it properly.
I thought I’d get at least service for 6 when my mother died. But no. My grandmother wouldn’t let go. She “might entertain.” I was routinely serving dinner for 12-15 people, practically monthly, but she “might entertain.”
By the time that china came into my possession, I’d outgrown the need for it. After my grandfather died, I packed it up in NY and then never unpacked the boxes again, until I moved to Atlanta.
There was something symbolic and deeply ironic about finally unpacking those boxes here into a server I’d had built in for the purpose. I remember sitting on the floor in tears. I live in a casual, modern home with a Japanese dining room. We have potlucks when we do entertain. I no longer own any tablecloths. I like my dishwasher. I was never, ever going to use that china here.
And so, it sat, weighing more guilt on me every year. How is it possible for something so simple to be so complex?
Anne told me a while back that she didn’t want it, so last fall I told her I was ready – the time had come for me to get rid of my mother’s china. Amazingly, now that she owns a home, she changed her mind. She’s now the one entertaining 12 – 15 people routinely. She doesn’t have or want a dishwasher. It’s perfect. I hope she uses it until all the plates are chipped or broken. She should enjoy it.
I packed it up. It left last month and I was able to put my old Pfaltzgraff everyday dishes in the server with room to spare. My house and I took a deep breath.
Forward.
My grandparents were “as poor as church mice” (their words) when they got married. My grandmother, motherless, the only child of an Italian immigrant working as a milkman in New York City. My grandfather, born in 1909, the youngest boy of 11 in a family so poor they wore clothes homemade from flour sacks, and burned the coals they’d picked up from along the railroad track.
My grandfather slowly worked his way up from bank teller, hired because he had graduated high school and could play baseball for the bank team, to Vice President of HR by his retirement in the early 1970s.
It wasn’t until the 50s, when my parents had already met and were courting long distance between Maine and NY, that my grandparents began to experience some quiet affluence in their lives. They’d scrimped and saved and were finally moving to the suburbs to their first (and only) house. My grandmother got to furnish a home in the most modern blonde-wood furniture from top to bottom. My parents became engaged during the time my father was stationed in Japan during the Korean conflict. It must have been an incredibly exciting time for both mother and daughter.
A sure sign of affluence in those postwar days was to own things, and my grandmother jumped right on that bandwagon. What she wanted most was a set of china. China meant you’d made it – you could afford something so fragile that you were almost afraid to use it. My mother, too, wanted a set of china plates for her wedding. This was going to be expensive.
My father came to the rescue – near the base where he was stationed in Japan was a china factory. They must have done a brisk business with American GIs. My father, through the mail, sent pattern ideas home to my mother and grandmother, who were able to basically design what they wanted – a plate with a simple gold rim and a pink rose in the middle. This was a far less expensive way to purchase china than going through an American department store and, they had something totally unique. They decided to purchase a set of 12; each one of them would have six settings. They could share when they needed to as my parents planned to settle in the suburbs nearby after their wedding. Back home, they purchased the same silver setting – 8 sets for each household – in a lovely, simple rose pattern to match the plates.
Later on, here was the rub. They had something totally unique. Heaven forbid you should break a plate.
Growing up, I remember china moving back and forth between our houses when needed. My grandmother almost never entertained, so the bulk was with us. There were serving pieces added over the years. I really had no idea the extent of what was there.
When I got married, I never got to pick out a china pattern of my own. I was always told that when the time came, I’d have a set of 12. I don’t think they expected me to live 4 hours away from home. My mother quickly came to realize that marrying into a large family I’d need something for entertaining, so she bought me a cheap set of 16 plates I never would have chosen for myself at a registry. They could go in the dishwasher. They were ugly, but I never looked back.
I told myself that if I’d had the good china, it just would have been a headache – always worrying about my in-laws breaking it or not washing it properly.
I thought I’d get at least service for 6 when my mother died. But no. My grandmother wouldn’t let go. She “might entertain.” I was routinely serving dinner for 12-15 people, practically monthly, but she “might entertain.”
By the time that china came into my possession, I’d outgrown the need for it. After my grandfather died, I packed it up in NY and then never unpacked the boxes again, until I moved to Atlanta.
There was something symbolic and deeply ironic about finally unpacking those boxes here into a server I’d had built in for the purpose. I remember sitting on the floor in tears. I live in a casual, modern home with a Japanese dining room. We have potlucks when we do entertain. I no longer own any tablecloths. I like my dishwasher. I was never, ever going to use that china here.
And so, it sat, weighing more guilt on me every year. How is it possible for something so simple to be so complex?
Anne told me a while back that she didn’t want it, so last fall I told her I was ready – the time had come for me to get rid of my mother’s china. Amazingly, now that she owns a home, she changed her mind. She’s now the one entertaining 12 – 15 people routinely. She doesn’t have or want a dishwasher. It’s perfect. I hope she uses it until all the plates are chipped or broken. She should enjoy it.
I packed it up. It left last month and I was able to put my old Pfaltzgraff everyday dishes in the server with room to spare. My house and I took a deep breath.
Forward.
Postscript - In the 20 years I owned that china, I never took a single photo of it.
This Meissen china must be what they were interested in copying - the edge of our china is not scalloped and there is a single rose only in the middle. It's the closest I could find on the internet.
This Meissen china must be what they were interested in copying - the edge of our china is not scalloped and there is a single rose only in the middle. It's the closest I could find on the internet.
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