Ha, you thought it said traditions. Luckily this post addresses both, I think. The accompanying photo popped up in my Facebook memories today. November 2020 was during the height of the pandemic when many of us were sticking close to our own groupings of loved ones. Since my mother and I comprise our family, that’s why the table is set for two.
My upbringing focused on time-honored traditions, especially for special occasions like the holidays. My mother’s attention to the traditions bordered on fanaticism but it was done out of love and respect for her mother. Not that it wasn’t awfully close to the concept of tradition in Shirley Jackson’s short story “The Lottery.” “Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones.” Yes, this story speaks to the negative aspect of some traditions. I prefer the positive.
Traditions may also be comfortable, like a well-worn, favorite blanket. They may remind us of a time when we felt safe, loved, and comforted. Those are what I cling to, even just loosely. Childhood holiday preparation meant getting out the “good stuff.” In those days when most brides of our parents’ generation still expected to receive China, silver, and crystal as wedding gifts, their use was saved for special occasions. And they were expected to be used at those times.
This picture made me smile as I looked at what was in it. With my then 90 year old mother as my companion for Thanksgiving, I knew she would prefer to see the “good stuff.” And, honestly, I wanted to use it for the occasion. Silver was polished, crystal was washed, and a treasured linen was freed from its place in the closet. I was happy with the result and it meant a great deal to my mom. She grew up eating from those dishes, with that silver, each Sunday until she married at 20. My mother and her brother were very sentimental about their mother’s memory. The dishes and silver are my grandmother’s from the mid-1920s when she married. The linen tablecloth was hand embroidered by my grandmother or her sister, likely just after the turn of the 20th century.
The linen napkins were some of my mother’s wedding gifts. My contribution was the setting. That’s my home and furniture. And I prepared the meal (comprised of traditional fare, of course). The pumpkin centerpiece was given to me by a good friend and it had a bit of an “elf on the shelf” connotation. Where would the pumpkin be found next? It became a victim of my most recent move when I had to merge households.
Why do some of these material items bring me comfort? They have been handled by people I love and especially by those I’ve loved and have left us. They in turn were comforted by their relatives previous touch. These items were obtained through love, respect, and a great deal of hard work. They are as much a part of me as they are part of my “stuff.” I’m proud they’re mine. But their true monetary value does not measure their worth. “The greatest treasures are those invisible to the eye but found by the heart.” (Judy Garland)
Here’s a little something for your senses…”Touch me/It’s so easy to leave me/All alone with my memory/Of my days in the sun…”. “Memory” by Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Stories Are For Eternity 