Grief, In Spoons, Salt Shakers and Spices
Both parents are gone now, and I am left with boxes to unpack. But this is not the box clutter of a new house, of a new space with all the hassles of finding the toilet paper and can opener.
This is the closing of a chapter, no, the whole book. As I was packing in Texas, to move things to Arizona, I was numb and deeply grieving the loss of the people, the lives, the scenes and memories in that house. As I've said before, and perhaps overused, "the memories will come so thick that people will brush them from their eyes like cobwebs," so said James Earl Jones' character in Field of Dreams. Indeed the memories clouded my eyes like gossamer (as did the tears). At one point, I could only continue putting things in boxes without much reason to my method. Just wrap carefully, label the box, seal it. Done. Next one...
Now, as I slowly take things out of boxes, out of the bubble wrap and "mover's cellophane" (good stuff - highly recommend it!), I see that I've packed those memories too. But this time, they come out piece by piece, allowing me to examine and savor the thoughts. I miss my camera (left behind in Texas I *hope*) and have thought 50 times this morning that I wanted to take a picture and show someone these things. Wonder Boy is down by the wash, saving the world from a volcano by building an evolution bridge, so he's not here to listen to the stories. And that's right, somehow. He's eleven, he's only looking forward. Not backwards in time.
Here are the tiny little salt shakers (two, presumably one for pepper, but who wants pepper ground so fine that it could shake out of this?). Quite simply, I've been using these my whole life. One of them even has rice grains in it, leftover from some humid climate somewhere (maybe Virginia? mid-60s?).
The spices. Adam's spices. Could NOT leave those behind to get sent off to Goodwill or the food pantry. Italian seasoning, cayenne (lots and lots of cayenne because my dad loved hot food up until about six years ago), three-count-'em-three bottles of stick cinnamon. Oh, right, those are accumulated from several Christmases spent with Grandpa and Grandma. I think I intended to make cider or tree ornaments. Likewise the three food coloring kits - the last few Easters have been spent at Grandpa's dying eggs and hiding them in his vast yard.
And the spooons. Oh my god, the spooons. There's the Revere salad spoon which is the perfect size and heft for scooping ice cream, or tossing the salad, or mixing. There are a series of pretty spooons - one for a sugar bowl long since broken, a set of demitasse spoons (does anyone know what these are? restaurants in Europe have them...), and the remainder of the "family silver" which really amounts to some tarnished serving and teaspooons, a meat fork and a couple of knives in a pattern that no one really ever liked. But they were Grandmother Hall's.
Now they are mine. And that fact saddens me tremendously. I am the one holding the "family silver" now. There is no other house where curious children and grandchildren can poke around on a rainy day and touch these things, hear the stories, listen to the names. No loving wrinkly granny who knows and loves the spooons as much as her granny did, and as much as the wide-eyed, listening granddaughter does.
No grandchildren. Yet. I'm the keeper now, so I'll make sure they are somewhere my granddaughter or grandson can peek at them.
As for the spices and salt shakers? they will be used. And used up. With gusto.
This is the closing of a chapter, no, the whole book. As I was packing in Texas, to move things to Arizona, I was numb and deeply grieving the loss of the people, the lives, the scenes and memories in that house. As I've said before, and perhaps overused, "the memories will come so thick that people will brush them from their eyes like cobwebs," so said James Earl Jones' character in Field of Dreams. Indeed the memories clouded my eyes like gossamer (as did the tears). At one point, I could only continue putting things in boxes without much reason to my method. Just wrap carefully, label the box, seal it. Done. Next one...
Now, as I slowly take things out of boxes, out of the bubble wrap and "mover's cellophane" (good stuff - highly recommend it!), I see that I've packed those memories too. But this time, they come out piece by piece, allowing me to examine and savor the thoughts. I miss my camera (left behind in Texas I *hope*) and have thought 50 times this morning that I wanted to take a picture and show someone these things. Wonder Boy is down by the wash, saving the world from a volcano by building an evolution bridge, so he's not here to listen to the stories. And that's right, somehow. He's eleven, he's only looking forward. Not backwards in time.
Here are the tiny little salt shakers (two, presumably one for pepper, but who wants pepper ground so fine that it could shake out of this?). Quite simply, I've been using these my whole life. One of them even has rice grains in it, leftover from some humid climate somewhere (maybe Virginia? mid-60s?).
The spices. Adam's spices. Could NOT leave those behind to get sent off to Goodwill or the food pantry. Italian seasoning, cayenne (lots and lots of cayenne because my dad loved hot food up until about six years ago), three-count-'em-three bottles of stick cinnamon. Oh, right, those are accumulated from several Christmases spent with Grandpa and Grandma. I think I intended to make cider or tree ornaments. Likewise the three food coloring kits - the last few Easters have been spent at Grandpa's dying eggs and hiding them in his vast yard.
And the spooons. Oh my god, the spooons. There's the Revere salad spoon which is the perfect size and heft for scooping ice cream, or tossing the salad, or mixing. There are a series of pretty spooons - one for a sugar bowl long since broken, a set of demitasse spoons (does anyone know what these are? restaurants in Europe have them...), and the remainder of the "family silver" which really amounts to some tarnished serving and teaspooons, a meat fork and a couple of knives in a pattern that no one really ever liked. But they were Grandmother Hall's.
Now they are mine. And that fact saddens me tremendously. I am the one holding the "family silver" now. There is no other house where curious children and grandchildren can poke around on a rainy day and touch these things, hear the stories, listen to the names. No loving wrinkly granny who knows and loves the spooons as much as her granny did, and as much as the wide-eyed, listening granddaughter does.
No grandchildren. Yet. I'm the keeper now, so I'll make sure they are somewhere my granddaughter or grandson can peek at them.
As for the spices and salt shakers? they will be used. And used up. With gusto.