Assorted Stuff and a Hot Punch Bowl

I may never know the “rest of the story,” but I know that bowl holds memories. I carefully packed each piece, then marked FRAGILE on all sides of the box. The moving company would handle this. It was worth the extra money.

While Dale camped in our new home, I triaged through 35 years of stuff.  If I felt no connection to an item or I couldn’t remember where I got it or the story behind it, the item went to Goodwill, which thankfully took my piles and piles of junk. Good junk, though including White, Pfaff, and Viking sewing machines. Years earlier, I rescued the machines from defunct Home Ec classes, one per each daughter, but the machines sat silent in the garage, waiting for a young girl to create a masterpiece worthy of Project Runway, which of course never happened.

Goodwill attendants, God bless them, smiled as I handed them:

  • Boxes of empty mason jars—wide lids, small lids, half pints, pints, quarts, some Ball, some “real” Mason—during Christmas filled with Olallieberry jam, mixed berry jam, apricot or other apricot iterations, given to family and friends, then returned to be refilled with more deliciousness from our garden.
  • Boxes of 1970s college texts—both mine and Dales—and while many of our classes were the same, the texts and editions differed.
  • Pool toys and noodles and inflatables
  • Flower pots and vases
  • 4H memories of our kids’ animals—pairs of pig boots (each of our three girls raised pigs, each needed a pair of boots), pig feeder, a lamb box, lamb halter, lamb covers, sheers
  • Plastique—Tupperware I rarely used. The random lids and/or mismatched bottoms I tossed into the recycle bin, as well as my class notes from UCSD and UCLA, spirals upon spirals, folders upon folders of lesson plans I’d never use. Why did we hang on to this stuff for so long?

Then, there was the “Hot Punch Bowl”—

In 1990, our first year in Indian Springs, a sweet Romanian family lived across from us. Georgiana, the mother, and I became friends over recipes, her goulash for my Mexican torte or my carrot cake for her chocolate brownies. We commiserated over working parenting woes; she ran her own catering business and I taught high school. I learned a smattering of Romanian and she improved her nearly fluent English. We shared traditions; we celebrated Christmas, New Years, and other family parties together.  Their high school daughter became our go-to babysitter, and we encouraged Rosanna to speak Romanian to our small children.

Suddenly one Friday, we arrived home from work to find a large rental truck loading everything from their two-story home. Georgiana, the mother, said they needed to return quickly to Romania for family and personal reasons.  She seemed distraught and I told her I was sorry to see them go. Her parting gifts to me—a delicately embroidered tablecloth from her native country, and a punch bowl, and I gave her something, too, but I have no idea what it was. The house emptied quickly; by weekend’s end, Georgiana and her family gone. We exchanged a few Christmas cards and letters, eventually nothing.

For weeks, realtors poured in and out and hosted Open Houses; two months later, we had new neighbors. This newlywed couple eventually became our good friends, too, although we missed Claudius, Georgiana, Sergei, Florie, and Rosanna. Through the years, I thought of Georgiana and her family at each party, especially at Christmas or New Years, or whenever I pulled out the magnificent crystal punch bowl she gave me. A heavy, crystal mount, cut in the same intricate design, accompanied the fancy bowl, as well as dainty crystal cups and a ladle. Guests at our parties ooh’d and aah’d at the treasure. Somehow, it made the champagne punch on New Years or Sangria at summer parties taste much better.

It was nearly five years later, when Mike, our “new” neighbor, casually updated us on the people before them. I don’t recall how the conversation took such a turn, but I clearly remember the indictment he made of the previous owner, our friends, our “extended family.”

Mike—You heard about the people who owned this house, right?

Me—No, they haven’t written in a few years. I don’t know what happened to them. I only know they returned to Romania.

Mike smiled, which grew into a sort of chuckle, as he leaned over to prune their climbing roses. We often talked while gardening in the front yard—our house or theirs.

Mike—They’re on the lamb, they’re wanted.

Me—No, wait? What? No, seriously?

Mike—It was in the paper. Father’s wanted for embezzling, Mother’s wanted for stealing from her wealthy clients.

Me—

Actually, I don’t think I replied. Too stunned I suppose. Not these wonderful people, who escaped the regime in Romania for asylum in the United States. I reflected on their business, catering in a wealthy part of town, and the bowl bestowed on me. I may never know the “rest of the story,” but I know that bowl holds memories. I carefully packed each piece, then marked FRAGILE on all sides of the box. The moving company would handle this. It was worth the extra money.

Inheritance Part II–Chandelier Changes

For two months, we enjoyed the light fixtures in their new locations. Then, we called the electrician again—this time to remove and repack the lamps; we were moving to Julian. No way was I leaving these pieces behind.

Kristy helped me from the garage floor, and we stared at the box and the chandelier. Since the box had been tucked in a far corner of the garage, I guessed Dale placed it there to protect it. Thing is he forgot about it and I didn’t know about it. The chandelier sat for two decades, wrapped in bathroom rugs from my grandmother’s house. Now, despite a film of dust and spider webs, it cast dancing prisms everywhere we looked. I laughed and cried at the irony. Even if twenty years ago I’d known, we couldn’t have afforded to hang the chandelier.

I spent the rest of that day searching the internet for chandelier repair. Since the chandelier was over 50 years, it qualified as an antique, not your standard hanging lamp. I had few options. Next morning as soon as the store opened, I brought it to Lloyd’s of Monterey. The lighting technician checked over the chandelier, no longer wrapped in carpet, but in the same cardboard box. He hesitated. I imagined he didn’t want another project, especially this one.

“It’s going to cost you over $500, maybe more, to fix the broken arm, rewire and replace the plug, and for ‘dressing.'”

He paused and smiled, “You can buy another chandelier for the cost of repairing this one. Have you looked at Home Depot?” He was missing the point. I hoped he was joking, since Lloyd’s sells crystal chandeliers.

“This belonged to my grandmother. I don’t care about the cost. I want it fixed, so I can hang it in my house.”

He reached in to touch some of the crystals. “Okay, well, I’m not sure we’ll be able to fix that broken arm. What color wire do you want? You have choices.”

And the discussion continued. I learned about dressing or how the strands hang, grounds and wires, arms. “Well, when it’s finished it’ll be worth as much as some of our more expensive models in the store. It’s going to take a while. I can’t start on this right away, so if you find a replacement arm on the internet that should save us some time.”

I went to work on my assignment, delivering the replacement arm the following week. A month passed then two, then two and half. I was anxious to see the finished product. No matter that I had waited twenty years already. In the meantime, I mentioned nothing to Dale. I wanted this to be a surprise.

Finally, the day arrived. I had a vision. I would move the existing Italian-style chandelier above our dining table to the master bedroom above our bed. Nana’s crystal chandelier would hang in the dining room, as it should have, long ago. And I hoped the electrician, obviously not me, could finish before Dale returned from work.

For two months, we enjoyed the light fixtures in their new locations. Then, we called the electrician again—this time to remove and repack the lamps; we were moving to Julian. No way was I leaving these pieces behind.

 

 

Inheritance–Part I

The sun shown in the garage and scattered the prisms everywhere—floor, ceiling, walls. I sat down and cried. I had no idea. For 20 years, I assumed this cherished heirloom went to my aunt or cousins.

For my Grandmother Alice’s 40th wedding anniversary, my grandfather gifted her with a dazzling crystal chandelier. It hung above their small kitchen table, beside their galley kitchen in their tiny apartment–an exquisite touch of elegance in their modest home. Six strands of crystal necklaces linked six crystal sconces. From each sconce, dripped crystal tear drops, with a large crystal pendant in the center. When sun shone through their apartment windows, masses of crystals scattered prisms, rainbows of varying sizes on the ceiling, walls, and floor. Meals at my grandparents seemed like dining in a fancy restaurant beneath a chandelier and with her amazing recipes. Her legendary chef skills, such as curried chicken with apples, raisins and chutney, kept her family alive during the Great Depression, and every holiday after, family relished her specialties of apple pie, mince-pie, and pumpkin pie.

Years later, I was a harried mom of three young kids and working full-time, when my grandmother died. Her funeral was a family reunion of sorts, with my aunt and cousins flying in from Seattle, and we celebrated my Grandmother’s life over pasta and fine wine at her favorite restaurant. Everyone had a favorite Nana story and recipe to share, like comfort food for the whole family. The thing I missed most was our Sunday afternoon phone calls. Those weekly phone calls usually happened while I stirred a pot of stew or spaghetti and Nana dispelled cooking advice, among other things. That Christmas, a few weeks after her death, we received boxes of her belongings—a golden tea-pot (a gift from her wealthy friend), paintings of birds, bird statues, jackets, dresses, and pieces of costume jewelry. The massive cardboard boxes that held my inheritance provided hours of entertainment for our kids, who found an empty wardrobe box could be used in many ways. So much for Christmas gifts. Why did we spend so much, when empty boxes worked?

Fast forward, twenty years later. My parents passed and I received more inheritance boxes. This time, our adult children were gone, but our garage could hold only so much stuff. Time to purge—my first retirement task. I poured through boxes upon boxes stacked high in the garage. Most were toys and dolls, athletic trophies from swimming, volleyball, gymnastics, and their recent college texts. “Hey, Mom, I don’t need this right now, but might use it later. Can you hold on to it for a while?” So, we had boxes marked with Meghan, Sam, and Allie. I made four piles earmarked for trash, Goodwill, eBay, or for Kristy who wanted discards for her art classes.

After a solid week of purging, Kristy and I reached the far corner of the garage. A heavy unmarked box, tucked at an angle, rested precariously atop smaller boxes. Spider webs, by either black widow or brown recluse spiders (no doubt—did I mention I used to teach biology?) encased the entire box, so we stepped back as it crashed to the floor. Kristy watched as I carefully peeled back the top—ready to stomp on any arachnid. This job was not for the weak. Inside was a rolled carpet that I didn’t recognize, but beneath that was the chandelier. The sun shown in the garage and scattered the prisms everywhere—floor, ceiling, walls. I sat down and cried. I had no idea. For 20 years, I assumed this cherished heirloom went to my aunt or cousins.