Autumn Leaf, Jadeite & Polish Pottery

I have slowly and methodically been rebuilding my heritage piece by piece. With dishes. When so many people in your life are dead, you simply have to rely on memories to recreate a story. Sometimes memories come crashing back at unexpected times and these are some of the favorite moments in my current life ... like seeing a jadeite coffee mug at an antique store.

Instantly, a memory surfaced ... my dear Grandma sitting (rarely) at her kitchen table with my mother sharing a cup of coffee. I'm allowed to take sips from my mother's cup -- rich coffee with milk -- and my Grandmother fidgety because she's unaccustomed to being still -- her thumb and index finger going up and down, up and down on that D-ring handle. I had to have that mug. I now have three (I use one and display two). I'm in love with the ugliest glass in Americana. (no -- there is uglier glass ...) The mugs look pretty in my kitchen window with the green-blue mason jars and green-blue insulators that adorn my window sashes.

Another memory flash -- those mason jars ... hidden (protected) behind a brocade curtain at the back of the basement on shelves fashioned by my Grandpa -- jar after jar, lined up like well-disciplined soldiers -- housing a commodity: home-canned sour cherries. The hue of those cherries through that green-blue glass beckoned to us. We'd stare at them, mouths involuntarily salivating, knowing that we would be partaking of their tart deliciousness at some point during our visit! We were in the basement -- riding a tricycle around the smooth concrete floor -- riding on Grandpa's -- what was it!? It was a knive/blade sharpener, but we didn't know that. It was sort of like a bike and there were few toys at their house! There was also the little wooden cabinet down there -- the one with layers of old paint -- with a slanted front and two doors. My oldest sister has that cabinet somewhere in her house. I don't remember what Grandma stored in that mint-green cabinet; my mother had it in our kitchen for a time -- used for storing sewing paraphernalia. That cabinet is as much a treasure as those jars full of those cherries -- hand-picked and pitted by my Grandpa and canned by my Grandma. These are the memories that flash back when I see the jadeite mug. I now have numerous blue-green mason jars with their zinc lids. I don't have the red rubber seals, but I do use them to store soups and what-have-you in my refrigerator. What do you have in that cabinet, sweet sister?

I remember the ugly dimpled pans on Grandma's stove -- with high-domed glass lids obscured by condensation from boiling green beans and ham. And I remember that old handle that she used to clamp onto them to them move from burner to burner. Guardian Service. I have some of that now; Hers was sold at auction, along with the jadeite mugs, the ugly glasses, the aluminum cups and the Autumn Leaf mixing bowls ... but I have some anyway. I found it at the Goodwill! I acquired it. I shared it. I use it ... though not with acidic stuff like tomato and lemon! It's thought to be a cause in the rise of Alzheimers, right?

Autumn Leaf bowls -- delivered by the Jewel Tea man. Though it was more of a mid-western thing, somehow my Grandma out in Newville, PA had those bowls. I remember her whipping her mashed potatoes in the large bowl -- and Dream Whip in the small bowl ... for her Glorified Rice. She abused those dang bowls! Clang Clang Clang as the old Sunbeam whacked the sides. They held up! Perhaps the gold trim was a little faded and perhaps there were a few chips, but those bowls were always on her table or being utilized in her kitchen. I saw one of those bowls at a flea market one day and the memory seized me! Hers were sold at auction -- very pragmatically, as per my grandfather's direction ... but were a piece of my story -- of my childhood. I now have a nesting set. They can fetch quite a pretty price, but I got mine for a steal. i sometimes use them at Thanksgiving, but would not take the risk that Grandma took with the mixer. It would be like I was clanging HER around, not just a bowl that the Jewel Tea man brought to the door. I take good care of those bowls.

The jadeite Swirl mixing bowl ... I saw one somewhere. Some of my earliest childhood memories swept over me. I think I was 2 ... maybe 3. We lived in Missouri -- in tornado alley. We'd been low enough to survive a tornado, but suffered some flooding (inches of mud in our yard) in its aftermath -- nothing too terrifying, but enough to remember the fearfulness (formidableness ;-) of the threat. I remember my birthday ... receiving a castle musicbox jewelry box from my aunt (my daughter has that jewelry box now ...) and I remember that jadeite Swirl bowl from which my mother used to serve either the spaghetti or the sauce on our dinner table (never from the stove -- that just wasn't proper). I now have one of those bowls. I have no idea what happened to hers. She probably broke it in some ceramic sink somewhere along the way, but I have one now! and it reminds me of my early childhood -- when all we worried about was the little swimming pool overflowing or learning the Lord's Prayer because we heard so much being said through the wall when our older sister was saying her prayers with Mother. Jadeite is ugly! but I love it.

My mother's generation is our missing link. She died before my grandparents broke up their home. Had she been living, she would have chosen those things that SHE loved -- that made her heart smile with tender thoughts and memories from her childhood and young adulthood. Perhaps she would have grabbed those old Autumn Leaf bowls -- or the Guardian Service. I hope she might have wanted a jadeite mug or two, also remembering those afternoons sipping coffee with her mother at the kitchen table. She may have had different treasures, like a sewing machine or quilting rack or her father's field hat. If this had happened, I probably wouldn't have my own collection. You see, I would be using these things in HER home, at HER table. It would have been natural and wonderful. Maybe I would put little bugs in her ear about really loving those bowls so that she might remember that when she began to scale-down and thin-out her home as she approached her own old age. But that wasn't to be.

And neither could she do the same with my father's mother. I can't really have expected my dad to be much interested in dishes. Bah. But we do have the brass bells from her front door. Now THAT'S a memory -- those jingling bells against the beautiful hard wood of her door every time it opened or closed. She sold her house when my mother died so that she could spend half of her time in our home and half of her time in a little apartment she had found. She valued her independence. I have gads of memories from her home, too -- but more from the time she lived in our home, as she had become a surrogate mother to us. Our stuff became her stuff and her stuff became our stuff and it all became a little bit obscured, but I actually do have a few pieces of her old dishes because I dismantled HER apartment when she died, too. A sister and I, along with my infant daughter, handled her possessions with care and made decisions of what to do with each thing. We had a box for each grandchild and her two sons -- bags for Goodwill and bags for garbage. Same old same old sad event. But I have her hammered aluminum bread tray that was on her table each and every time I ate with her. That's bittersweet.

But, even within and without all of the old -- the memories -- the tradition -- the heritage -- there is the "new."

The Polish pottery mug gifted to me and another friend -- forming a triangle between three women in prayer for each other and their families. I love this mug. I have also received Jerusalem pottery from David's parents, which I also treasure. My daugher has thrown beautiful mugs and bowls -- hand-built wonderful ceramic plates, a sugar bowl -- and candy dish. These are my CURRENT treasures, providing a tangible

pre-history of our lives and love. They're at their beginning -- hopefully to be handed-down, rather than to be "falsely" acquired. My kids know what these things mean to me -- even my son. I share an oral history of grandparents and great-grandparents whom they will never know, sadly. When you're like third in line for the matriarchy or patriarchy in your family at the ripe old age of 47, you have to think of these things!

This all comes down to Grandmas. I cherish the memories of times with my grandmothers. I learned their ways; I watched their hands. I listened to their voices -- their wise words and their loving words. I was never bored when I was with them; I only ever felt safe and nurtured. My own mother was never blessed to be a grandma! I really feel bereft on her behalf. And my children never knew her! I have often imagined what kind of grandmother she would have been. How they would spend a week or two during the summer in her home learning from her -- her wisdom and her ways. Conversely, David's mother lost her child, so there is yet another gap in the generations -- my children's missing father and their grandparents' missing son. (I try to fill that gap as best I can.) Though David's mother was overseas for much of my kids' early childhoods, she now lives just 3 short miles from their college. They are able to spend time with her NOW -- to tap into her wisdom, her ways, her love NOW. Eat at her table. Use her dishes and hear tales of her life NOW. Even in her older age, their relationship with her radiates with newness and beauty. I am beholden to her for that. I am so thankful for grandmothering.

Grandpas are wonderful and treasured, too -- but this tale is mostly about we womenfolk.