Pass the plate

Here is the thing about blogging...it is supposed to make you feel better...let you express your feelings...a release.

After the last post about four generations...growing old...family memories...I went down a path. It was not a good look for me.  

Growing up, my mom was a simple person.  We did not have much growing up.  My mom was just a simple person, in a very nice, lovely way.

I can still see the Correlle dishes on the table...the ones with the avocado green flowers.

My mom was a sucker for avocado green.  

Those were the dishes we ate off of for at least 18 years.  I cleared them nightly and washed and dried them...and later put them in the dishwasher.  

I am not a fancy person either.  I am not into shiny things, no jewelry, not anything fancy or shiny.  

Until I saw my Mamaw's dishes.  They we displayed in a maple hutch in her tiny dining room/sewing room.  

I spent many an afternoon, trying on the dress she was making me, with the hemming ruler, I would step in a circle, while she was putting the pins in for the hem.  The room was small, the floor creaked and on the wall was a hutch that displayed lovely dishes.  

I guess, when I was turning around, during the hemming session, that I noticed the dishes.  I asked her for them.  I said, (because you know when you are 14 and anybody above the age of 50, has one foot in the grave), "Mamaw, when you are old and die, can I please have your dishes?"

She tilted her head, looked shocked and said, "of course but you know plates usually have food on them".  This was a total jab because I had no interest in cooking and/or baking at the time.  She was convinced "that I would never find a man because I could not bake a homemade pie crust.

Many years past.  Turns out that Mamaw was not going out easily...she lived to be 92.  

My mom packed up the dishes, all wrapped in Tribune Review paper and delivered them to me about 21 years ago.

After I wrote my last blog, I called my cousin Jennifer.  We talked about our family tree/gene pool.  And things we appreciated.

The next day, I went up into the bonus room and dug out a box of dishes.  

Why was I keeping something wrapped up in Tribune Review newspaper when they meant something to me?  Why?  Nobody in my house would appreciate who they came from of why we had these dishes?  The disadvantage of being a late bloomer, when you finally have kids in your mid 40's, those babies most likely will not have long relationships with their grandparents, and most definitely not have four generations.

I washed the dishes.  I dried the dishes.  I put them in my old rustic hutch.  A few in the cabinet. And I said nothing.

Later that day, Walker came in and asked, "Mom, where did you get those dishes, they are so pretty?"

I smiled, shook my head and said, "upstairs in the bonus room...They have been there for 21 years.  They were my grandmother's."

I felt like the Grinch, when he was on the top of the mountain hearing all the little Who's on Whoville singing.  

Win for Mamaw, win for my old rustic hutch and win for my heart.

When Franklin and Walker sat down for dinner, Franklin also commented on the dishes.

I could see us all cramped around that little dining room table, kids at the little card table (aka the kids table) with the dishes in front of us.  

The angst in my heart that I had been feeling, it went away.  They belonged on a new table and in a new hutch where there was love and fun and frozen pie crusts.  These dished definitely did not belong wrapped in newspaper in my bonus room.  

I am using the good dishes knowing full well they will get chipped, broken, the whole nine yards.  They need to be loved and appreciated now, not later.

The beat goes on.  Pass the plate. 

It is Never the same. The Holiday Blues edition.

 

Christmas was over.  The shopping, wrapping, thinking, organizing, list making, Christmas cards, cooking, decorating, all of it, it was over.

And it was a fabulous holiday season.  Some Christmases do not live up to the hype.  This one did.  Over exceeded the expectations.  Even the kids said so.

Franklin and I were alone in the car, headed back home and we were both quiet...I was reflecting.  He was driving.  And then, just out of the blue, I blurted..."I know that I am not the only person who has ever lost their mom, but the holidays are different when they are gone, they just are different."

My husband quickly replied, "they are definitely different.  I agree."

Look, I promise this will be one of the last blogs about my mom.  I promise.  

But this year, I could really feel it.  Days after her death, Christmas came.  Honestly, we were sad, but she was free of ALS.  Last year, we got through it.  This year, it stung.  Alot. 

As we drove south, I was totally preoccupied by past Christmases.  Life seemed so simple then.  Mom would talk Crazy Russell into riding around to look at Christmas decorations by saying she saw a big buck in the field at the entrance of the neighborhood, so he was in.

We would drive through Delmont or White Valley looking out the windows, singing to the AM radio, the windows would steam up and we were in awe of those colored lights.  A few years later, the all-white lights were popular.  

My parents had a wooden greeting card in the yard, Season's Greetings from the Bahnemans.

Christmas Eve Day was the biggest day of the year for us as kids.  My cousins lived in the next neighborhood.  We would alternate years, our house, then the next year, theirs.

My grandparents would come, my Great-grandma Emma and my aunt and uncle.

Remember, there were no cell phones, no TikTok shop, no Amazon, just gazing through beautifully decorated stores like Kaufman's and Gimbels.

The packages would be loaded in from the cars while the ladies carried Tupperware containers, roasting pans with potholders and the special pie box we made for Mamaw' pies.

We were raised with women who stuck to the schedule.  When they said, we are starting at 2pm, you can bet they were in the driveway at 1:30pm.

And at 2pm, we started.  We opened by age...typically my cousin Janet was first, but occasionally, we would switch it out and let the Great Grandmother go first.  Four generations of women in one room, incredible. 

It was always amazing to me how my Aunt Judy could just nail your present.  She never bought anything you wanted, she bought what you knew you would love, but didn't even know it existed.

After a big Christmas feast, the dishes would be done, the trays of homemade Christmas cookies would appear, and Crazy Russel would pull out a gag gift for someone.  

The cars would get loaded back up, Tupperware back in the car and off they went.

Christmas morning, it was just the four of us, until we loaded up and went to Mamaw's and Bill's for another Christmas feast.

As Franklin and I drove along, even though my husband was with me, I felt detached, like I didn't belong anywhere, anymore.  There are only a few people left on this earth who know anything about those days and times and how exciting those 24 hours were to us as kids.

All of those memories and moments, laughs and perfect Christmas cookies, extinguished.  

Despite the fact that I have been married for 26 years and three kids, it just felt like I was alone.

So many of my Christmas decorations were made by those women in the room that day.  Quilts, Christmas trees, Santa and Mrs. Claus, all made by those women.

Their names and years written on the bottom.  Ugh, rips my heart out to see Linda 1963 or Ruth 1966.

I just felt like the end was coming fast...not about living but about who I could look at and say, "Remember when..." and they would know what I was talking about.  

Not to be hurtful, but we all know women make the holidays happen.  And men nap.

All four of those women in that house on Christmas Eve Day, made the magic.

And now, those who brought me into the world, were no longer in mine.

I was left with ceramic trees with a name and year.  Grateful.  But sad.

And I feel like I have a burden of keeping those memories alive. But who was I keeping those memories alive for?  

I was grateful when Franklin had to pull over for a bathroom stop. The break forced me to focus on other things, like people watching.

We walked in the door, happy to be home.  There is no place like it they say.

I unpacked, you know the drill and plugged in the tree.  I dimmed the lights and looked around and thought about our Christmas holiday.

For the first time ever, I let me tree and most of my decorations up past 12/26.  I am sure that made my mom roll over in her grave, but it gave me peace in my heart.

The holidays are just different now.  

And even if it is just a small circle who remembers those days that defined us, I am determined to give my kids and nieces and nephews those memories

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