A few years ago, one of my uncles called up and offered me a set of china that had belonged to my grandmother. I don’t remember the exact story, but he found it, didn’t want it, and was offering it to me as the oldest granddaughter. I said yes, which in retrospect may have been a mistake. Because: wow, flower-printed china, and a huge set of it. I boxed it up in two big tupperware containers and forgot about it.
But recently I opened up the boxes to see what it looked like and then decided to get rid of it. I emailed my local sister to see if she wanted any, then put it back into a box, more loosely packed, to wait for a trip to Goodwill (or whatever).
Then I took out two plates to put into rotation in our dishes. We don’t really have any plates, honestly. we have some “plate-like bowls” from Ikea, and one plastic plate that C bought me as a gift with an owl on it. After just a couple of days, I found that I really like them. Not the design, really; still way too frou-frou for my tastes. (haviland-limoges with frilly edges and blue flowers!) But they’re damn solid plates, and just the right size for big soft taco tortillas.
Plus I think of my grandmother (gone five years now) when I use them: stern, but with a somewhat hidden wicked sense of humor. Grandma Dillon was probably the most involved in our lives of any relative, either side of the family.She was one of the people who often took care of us after dad died, the other being renee across the street: an elderly woman in a wheelchair from polio, who also owned pit bulls. No, really.
She took us to museums in her a little gray Toyota Tercel, I think, a three-door, so that we had to climb into the back seat, and someone (usually Elizabeth) had to sit on the “hump.” Once I rode along with her when my cousin drove her car to Camp Pendleton. and he was speeding and got stopped by an MP, on the freaking base. I want to say that she chewed out the cousin, but I could be just making that up.
Lunch at the cafeteria in the LA County Museum of Natural History, down in the basement. For the longest time they had an exhibit of old (Mercedes-Benz? BMW?) cars down there. I was fascinated by the pre-30s models. I remember her walking very slowly.
Going over to her immaculately clean house, which has (obvs) since been sold, and IIRC torn down. The garden window over the sink looking out onto the front yard, with a little snowflake ornament catching the light. The gorgeous white (50s?) stove. Water in a glass pitcher with yellow flowers on it. A metal tin of cookies, and getting to pick out just one.
I’m pretty sure these aren’t the plates from Thanksgiving. I don’t know who ended up with THAT set, but it was more complete than this one, if memory serves, but they aren’t terribly different. Until I was in high school, Thanksgiving was always at grandma’s — Christmas too, usually — and she brought out the good china, the good silver, the white tablecloths. We ate at the kid’s table on the porch? patio? sunroom? that opened out onto the dining room and the living room. That was the same area where they set up the Christmas tree.
all of this tumbles through my head, if only in the background or subconsious, while I stand in the kitchen and assemble my tacos or serve up bacon & eggs.
I think I might divvy up the plates (it’s mostly plates) and keep a few extra for myself, if Edith really wants some of the set. The big stuff, though, is pretty ridiculous for my life: tureens! and will go away, somehow. Then I’ll have those (useful) pieces, with the associated bits of memory, until I either switch over to something in our design style, or they get broken.
Update, 12/9/2010: I ended up keeping the the plates & bowls, at least for now. My sister’s going to look through the big stuff and see if there’s anything she wants.