My grandmother says “Come with me.” She takes me to her bulging china cabinet and pull out an item. “See this small chalice? This is very, very old. It was my grandmother’s. It’s all I have of her. Promise me that someday you’ll take care of it?” I bite my lip and then seriously nod my head in assent. Of course. It’s important.
My dour great-aunt Grace lives alone in an old farmhouse that is frozen in time. She lets me play ancient records through her mother-in-law’s gramophone. My grandfather, Grace’s much younger brother, teaches me how to lower the heavy needle onto the grooved surface. Later, I lie on the scratchy, heavy, Victorian horsehair fainting lounge. I imagine ladies in fancy gowns stretched out on it as men in tuxes play music on the gramophone for them. Caruso. Oh, my. Meanwhile, my mother and my grandmother walk through the house, assessing the value of the antique furniture and collectibles and already deciding what they will help themselves to when Grace passes away.
My wonderful, warm great-aunt Cora lives alone in a massive rowhouse in Boston. We visit my father’s relatives every summer on the way to the beach. Cora has cabinets and rooms of wonders she and her husband collected during their all-too brief life together. “Come with me,” she says to childhood me, leading me to a cabinet filled floor to ceiling with costume jewelry. “Take something,” she urges. “Everyone needs to collect something.” I choose a fake ruby encrusted spider. I know I will wear it. “Lovely,” Cora croons. Years later, I visit a diminished Cora with my first husband. She takes him by the hand into a room filled with brass objects. “Take something, Ed. Everyone needs to collect something.” Ed, utterly astonished by the generosity and the gleaming room, takes a candlestick holder. Something useful. I like that.
My favorite great-aunt, Bobbie, is the youngest of my grandfather’s sisters – the baby of 12 siblings. She smokes and drinks. Her house only holds things she uses. This makes me deeply happy. When we visit, she serves us tea in delicate china cups and saucers she has collected. Some are chipped. It doesn’t matter. Each time she lets me pick out my favorite, and while we do, she slips me a box of candy cigarettes. These infuriate my mother and Bobbie knows it. We share a wink and go back to the table.
These four women, plus my mother, shape my world view. When you get older, you get married. You acquire and collect things. You save the things your relatives pass down to you because they said they were important. Some you can use, some you can’t. Never, ever. Just leave them on a shelf so they don’t get broken on your watch. Then, give them to your children so a piece of our family lives on and on.
Acquisition starts somewhere in everyone’s life. Who am I to break the chain?
My dour great-aunt Grace lives alone in an old farmhouse that is frozen in time. She lets me play ancient records through her mother-in-law’s gramophone. My grandfather, Grace’s much younger brother, teaches me how to lower the heavy needle onto the grooved surface. Later, I lie on the scratchy, heavy, Victorian horsehair fainting lounge. I imagine ladies in fancy gowns stretched out on it as men in tuxes play music on the gramophone for them. Caruso. Oh, my. Meanwhile, my mother and my grandmother walk through the house, assessing the value of the antique furniture and collectibles and already deciding what they will help themselves to when Grace passes away.
My wonderful, warm great-aunt Cora lives alone in a massive rowhouse in Boston. We visit my father’s relatives every summer on the way to the beach. Cora has cabinets and rooms of wonders she and her husband collected during their all-too brief life together. “Come with me,” she says to childhood me, leading me to a cabinet filled floor to ceiling with costume jewelry. “Take something,” she urges. “Everyone needs to collect something.” I choose a fake ruby encrusted spider. I know I will wear it. “Lovely,” Cora croons. Years later, I visit a diminished Cora with my first husband. She takes him by the hand into a room filled with brass objects. “Take something, Ed. Everyone needs to collect something.” Ed, utterly astonished by the generosity and the gleaming room, takes a candlestick holder. Something useful. I like that.
My favorite great-aunt, Bobbie, is the youngest of my grandfather’s sisters – the baby of 12 siblings. She smokes and drinks. Her house only holds things she uses. This makes me deeply happy. When we visit, she serves us tea in delicate china cups and saucers she has collected. Some are chipped. It doesn’t matter. Each time she lets me pick out my favorite, and while we do, she slips me a box of candy cigarettes. These infuriate my mother and Bobbie knows it. We share a wink and go back to the table.
These four women, plus my mother, shape my world view. When you get older, you get married. You acquire and collect things. You save the things your relatives pass down to you because they said they were important. Some you can use, some you can’t. Never, ever. Just leave them on a shelf so they don’t get broken on your watch. Then, give them to your children so a piece of our family lives on and on.
Acquisition starts somewhere in everyone’s life. Who am I to break the chain?
RSS Feed