Milepost 12: The Glory of Love

“Mama’s Delftware, I”

charcoal & acrylic on canvas

36” x 36”

2022

The following testimony was recently excavated from the far reaches of our kitchen junk drawer. Handwritten by my Uncle Kenny on a few pages near the center of an unused legal pad, it sat undiscovered for years. It’s believed my mother must have found it while settling Kenny’s estate and brought it home, though it’s possible she never saw it herself. In fact, Kenny’s words may have stayed pressed between the ruled sheets of the notepad for decades, unknown to us all.

As for its origins, I see Kenny rushing home, grabbing for something to write on, latching onto the legal pad, haphazardly flipping it open to the center, and emptying his heart onto the page, compelled to record the events of one of his toughest days. His scribbled words suggest he penned his thoughts at least a decade before he died, so whatever happened afterwards is anyone’s guess.

Essentially, Kenny’s words have waited nearly three decades to be shared, and I am honored to do so here. The loving gesture he describes brought to mind two separate family episodes, one involving my Aunt Ellen in early motherhood and the other, a conversation between my mother and me shortly after her long-awaited move back to her hometown of Natchez, Mississippi, both of which are included here.

May the trio inspire the (re)discovery of your own treasures’ treasure.

“The Matthew Rose”

by

Kenny Hathaway

Yesterday I sold my parents’ home — the one where I grew up, cut grass, caught lightning bugs at night, played Tarzan and built forts in the bayou, and basked in the love and warmth of two of the world’s finest parents. Yesterday was the day to get the last of their possessions cleaned out, sign the papers, and say goodbye.

I took the two guys who were going to move everything down to my former home and told them what needed to be done. When they left to go borrow a friend’s truck, I found myself alone with a chance to look around one more time. I must say that the old place looked pretty grim; kids had broken in, torn up and broken everything they had found, and the place had that sad, sad look of a place that had no one left to love it.

But when I closed my eyes, that’s not what I saw. I saw instead, big, delicious-smelling cedar Christmas trees that Daddy and I would go find in the woods; I saw the three of us digging into big steaks with mushrooms to celebrate special occasions; my mother coming in from the garden with dishpans full of butterbeans, tomatoes, and okra; our dogs stretched out in front of the fire on winter nights; the three of us absorbed in Alfred Hitchcock, Gunsmoke, and Jackie Gleason as we watched on our second-hand, black and white Zenith on Saturday nights. Most of all, though, I could feel the love and good times that are still able to warm me after all these years.

As I looked through the remnants of our household possessions, I found some treasures that I had missed earlier: Daddy’s beloved old National Geographics, some from 1917 and 1920, that he and I would read on Saturday afternoons, propped up on pillows in their bed; an old wine bottle with Christmas lights in it made by my mother’s dear friend, Mrs. Bonner, and best of all, some of Momma’s favorite recipes in her handwriting.

As I quickly closed the door, I could almost hear my mother’s voice saying, Aren’t you going to take the Matthew rose?

In fifteen minutes, I was back with a shovel, digging up the sprouts of an old fashioned rose that my mother had planted, loved, and nurtured for over forty years, a rose that she’d dug up on one of our Sunday afternoon fishing trips when I was about five. The next thing I knew, my trunk was filled with starts of Great Aunt Minnie’s Irises, Aunt Jessie’s chrysanthemums, Grandmaw’s red amaryllis, and an old purple hyacinth purchased and planted by me when I was seven years old. It had bloomed faithfully every year until my mother went into a nursing home. Maybe it’ll bloom again for me.

So, Momma, and Daddy, I’ve done the deed. But I kept the best part: a warehouse full of memories of an ideal childhood and the love of the best of parents. And, yes, Momma, I got the Matthew Rose.

*   *   *   *   *

Barefoot in her nightgown, moving about the house, Ellen begins her usual nighttime routine, turning off lights, picking up discarded toys, and shutting and locking her kitchen door, an unmistakable sign that the day’s end hath arrived.

Before calling it a night she pokes her head into both of her girls’ rooms one more time. Long since tucked in, they’re sound asleep now, lulled into slumber by the hum of their spinning ceiling fans, worn out from the drama of a long afternoon.

They’d been in a mood today, at each other’s throats at the peak of their displeasure, and frustratingly, Ellen still hadn’t determined what set them off. She’s been telling herself that she’s overthinking the melee. It probably spawned from the usual sister stuff, just general annoyances (like proximity or breathing), but whatever sparked their argument it was a doozy. She had to pull over to the side of the road and spank them both after several threats to do so were not met with the attitude adjustment she’d demanded.

Sass and attitude don’t fly with Ellen. The youngest of four herself, those were her powers to wield, but in her mothering she always tried to be fair, though she’d admit she lost her temper this afternoon on the dirt road down to Anna’s Bottom. It happens with even the most patient and gentlest of mothers. Children, though precious, push boundaries and test the nerves; that’s nature. She knows full well that inevitably her girls will have their disagreements and arguments, but pinching, hitting, biting, and screaming are not acceptable means of negating that tension — the opposite, actually, despite their young age. Simply, her girls lost their heads today on the way back from town and needed to be set straight for not minding their mother and causing one another physical harm.

Both under four and a mere fifty-one weeks apart, her daughters are what the family calls “Irish twins”. After marriage motherhood came to Ellen fast and she reveled in the challenge, but she often wondered if she was getting it right. Were her girls feeling equally loved? Her youngest daughter (through no fault of her own) requires way more attention than her big sister; that’s just how it is. And her eldest seems to understand and accept this, often stepping up to help her mother with her little sister, but all the same, Ellen just can’t help but worry if her mothering is answering the needs of her family.

Assured her girls are sleeping soundly, Ellen switches on a dim lamp in the hall outside their rooms. Her home, Quitman House, a planter-style farmhouse symmetrically designed around a center hall and flanked by two rooms on each side, was home to her father’s family for a couple generations, a lineage extended by her efforts to hold onto her paternal homeplace by rearing her own children there. The little light she ignites in the front hall will shine the way should her girls wake and come looking for her in the night.

Finally heading for her own bed, Ellen exits the center hall into the dining room before immediately passing through to the 1960s addition. Her bedroom, the fourth of the original rooms of the farmhouse, was now sealed off from the central hall and accessible only through the kitchen and great room addition put on the rear of the house by her father, creating a long haul for late-night, distressed toddlers. So while passing through the kitchen she pauses to flip on the task light above her stove top. Then, upon entering the great room, she switches on a small nightlight strategically placed in a wall outlet, extending the lighted trail from the center hall to the kitchen to the great room to the safety of their mother.

Pushing on her partly closed bedroom door, she steps into the darkness. Like her girls, her husband is also sound asleep and has been for more than an hour. Farmers are early to rise and therefore early to bed, so it’s up to Ellen to prepare her household for the day’s end. Navigating the darkness by instinct, she bypasses her sleeping mate and his otherworldly snoring, heading for their bathroom.

As she enters she thoughtfully shuts the door behind her before flipping on the bathroom light. With her nightly checklist almost done she opens her vanity drawer and begins pulling out the lotions, potions, and creams that constitute her nighttime beauty regimen. Turning on the faucet, she holds her hand under the running water, waiting for it to warm while fussing with her hair and inspecting her face with the other. Once at temperature she washes her hands before lathering them again to wash her face.

Throughout the process she relives the conflict between the two sisters again.

Reckon what set them off?! she ponders for the dozenth time.

The rest of the evening passed without incident. Perhaps laying down the law with a good spanking really set them straight. They both ate their supper, had their bath, played together without issue, and then readied for bed much the same.

Maybe I’m overthinking it? she suggests, giving her youngest a pass for instigating the backseat drama and her eldest for pinching her in response. But Ellen couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being too hard on the bigger sister, unintentionally creating friction between the two girls by asking so much of her firstborn at such a young age.

With her face clean and dripping wet she grabs a hand towel and pats herself dry. Summoning a little grace, she looks in the mirror and tells herself once again that the afternoon’s scuffle was nothing more than just aggravated sisters acting out, releasing their frustration on one another, not a reflection of her parenting or their individual character.

Removing the lid from her face cream, she scoops out a dab and lightly evens out the substance with her fingertips before moisturizing her face. After a gentle application, she returns the lid to the jar and puts it back in the vanity. Next she reaches over to the corner of the sink, pushes down on the pump of her drugstore body lotion, and lathers her hands, forearms, and elbows.

“WAIT. Where’s my ring?” she questions aloud, suddenly caught off guard by its absence. She hadn’t removed it to wash her face per usual. Somehow she’s missed a step.

That’s odd, she thinks, slightly panicked.

Ellen rinses the excess lotion from her hands, dries them, flips off the light, and exits her bathroom back into the darkness of her bedroom, bypassing her husband’s house-rattling snoring once more, returning to the great room and heading for the spot she’s certain she’ll find her missing ring — beside the kitchen sink.

Approaching the dim glow of the kitchen she can already see well enough to be certain that her ring isn’t there. There’s no hint of sparkle, and her ring, a gift from her grandmother, Clarabelle, couldn’t help but shine even in the dark. Were it anywhere in the room it would catch the light from the stovetop and hurl it back to her like a lighthouse.

“Damn,” she whispers to herself softly. “Where could I have taken it off?”

Stealthily, as though her growing panic might wake the household, Ellen begins tiptoeing about Quitman House hopeful for a glimmer of light, affirming that her grandmother’s ring isn’t lost just removed between tasks and carelessly set down somewhere. But spot after spot reveal nothing. Every logical resting place — her bedside table, the side table in the great room, the laundry room window — yields nothing.

Maybe one of the girls picked it up and took it into their room? she ponders.

Her daughters were often fixated on their mother’s sparkly jewel, but they’d never taken it before. Granted, her youngest’s curiosity has gotten her into some trouble in the past, but despite their young age they’re both well aware that their Great Granny Clarabelle’s ring is their mother’s prized possession. Fooling with it would only bring about a good spanking. Besides, when would they have had a chance to take it? Ellen only ever removed the ring before bed while performing her nighttime beauty routine unless it came off earlier in the day to fold laundry, cook, or wash dishes, but she’d already checked those spaces and there was no sign of it. Plus she hadn’t washed any dishes after supper tonight. They had leftovers and everything went straight into the dishwasher. Instinctively, she knows her girls didn’t take it. She won’t wake them. She must have carelessly set it down somewhere herself.

“Crap,” she huffs, thoroughly perplexed.

Maybe it went down the disposal? she imagines fearfully, hoping to be wrong.

Opening her kitchen junk drawer, she retrieves a small flashlight and shines its little light beam down into disposal, craning her neck to see into the dark hole. After a thorough once-over, she’s convinced, somewhat relieved, and yet flummoxed to see that her ring is not there either.

Where the hell is it?! she wonders again, gobsmacked by the developing mystery.

Fresh out of ideas, Ellen regroups. Leaning in, laying both hands on the kitchen counter, she tries to think of some other place she could have set her ring. She takes a deep breath, holds it, and then exhales slowly.

The van! her mind suggests.

Barefoot in her nightgown and still clutching the little kitchen junk drawer flashlight, she moves to unlock her kitchen door and then quickly descends the steps out into the humid Mississippi summer night. Encountering a surprised pack of country hounds, Ellen makes eye contact with each of the confused pups, calmly commanding, “Shhhhh,” tactfully changing her energy from panicked to casual to not rouse the pack. Convinced there’s no emergency or treat to bark about, the canines yawn and lower their heads back onto their paws, indifferent to her presence.

Quietly, Ellen opens the unlocked driver-side door of her conversion van. Out in the country they don’t bother locking their vehicles. Everyone in the Bottom just leaves their keys in their ignition (a habit undone the day her youngest climbs into a visitor’s running truck, shifts it into Drive, and accelerates the 4x4 through the side of Quitman House).

Door ajar, feet on the ground, Ellen leans across her driver’s seat and inspects the console to no avail. There’s nothing in the cupholders, not even loose change or a gum wrapper.

“Dammit,” she says bewildered, certain her search was about to end.

Moving her focus to the floor, she turns on the little flashlight and shines it across the floorboard, looking for a twinkle while running her hand across the carpeting, hoping to feel what her eyes aren’t seeing. Yet still there’s nothing. So she inspects under the seats before checking the console once more just to be certain it wasn’t overlooked.

“Jesus! Where the hell is it?!” she moans, officially exasperated with herself for letting this happen. And then it hits her. Her eyes widen with dread, and out comes the word, “SHIT.”

In her mind’s eye she’s seeing her van haphazardly pulled over on the side of Quitman Road, her hand flying with disciplinary intention, doling out two well-deserved spankings to mischievous little girls.

“Sweet Jesus, no!” she worries in the loudest whispers possible, her fear increasing exponentially as she imagines the family heirloom tumbling through the air cinematically in slow motion, disappearing over the roadbed into the bayou below.

“Dammit, Ellen!” she curses herself, rolling her eyes at her misfortune, exhausted from the long day. She’d almost made it into bed and now she was panicked and wide awake, standing barefoot in her nightgown outside in the dark of night.

Looking back at the kitchen door, she weighs her options — give up for the night and try again tomorrow or jump in the van and confirm her suspicion. Maybe she should go in and wake her husband to let him know what’s happened. Perhaps he’s seen her ring? But her gut tells her to just hop her buns in the van and floor it up the bluff.

        And should her family wake and find her missing? That would undoubtedly incite panic. After all, Ellen is the one who keeps her family and household running, the ever-present, steadying force of Quitman House now that her father is gone. What explanation would her husband and children come up with should they find both her and her van missing at this hour?

Knowing it’s a gamble but willing to risk it, her instinct tells her, Go, Ellen! Quickly!

Forgoing a note, she wraps the excess length of her nightgown around one hand and uses the other to climb into the driver seat of her van. With her keys already in the ignition, she cranks the vehicle, praying the sound doesn’t wake anyone, and quietly, headlights off, reverses out of Quitman House driveway.

Once over the dry, sandy creek bed bridge at the foot of the bluff, a safe distance from Quitman House, she switches on her headlights and stomps the gas pedal to the floor, launching her van like a rocket up the steep hill back towards town.

Could it truly have flown off my hand when doling out spankings?! Is that even possible?

Ellen crests the bluff moving fast. The clear openness of the starry night sky over the vast floodplain of Anna’s Bottom disappears behind her as she enters under the bluff top forest canopy surrounding the vast acreage of farmland. The foliage creates a dense tunnel allowing just mere speckles and patches of celestial light to break through to the dirt road below.

What if I can’t find it? Granny’s gonna haunt me forever! How will I ever forgive myself?

Trying to focus her mind and quiet her worry she guesstimates she’d come halfway down the dirt road that afternoon before finally pulling over. She gave the girls a warning before the road switched from pavement to gravel, but she had to holler to the back seats several more times before finally slamming on brakes to make good on her threats.

“Okay. Where did I stop? THINK, Ellen!” she shouts.

The final straw was the sound of a little hand slapping bare skin. That’s when she braked and skidded to a stop, so there’s gotta be skid marks on the road she deduces. Switching her beams to high, she slows the van, scanning the surface for tire tracks or a twinkle.

“Lord, love a duck,” she says matter-of-factly, imitating Clarabelle’s oft-used declaration, one with no discernible meaning yet suitable for any circumstance. Thoroughly annoyed by this treasure hunt, she asks the stars, “How did I end up out here tonight, Granny?”

After losing her father barely two years ago, Ellen could finally admit that, selfishly, she was angry with him… and Granny, too. They both left too soon, checked out on her when she desperately needed their love and support with her girls and the running of Quitman House. And with her sisters far away in Jackson and Atlanta, her support system was spread thin. She knew she could always lean on her brother (just a stone’s throw from Quitman House and the current steward of all the land that had once been their daddy’s), but he was busier than ever also trying to fill the bottomless hole their father had left behind in Anna’s Bottom.

Without question the last couple years have been some of her hardest, but Ellen has given it her all, remained steadfast in her devotions, and things were beginning to improve. The farming was good, Quitman House was still standing, and despite her many doubts she wanted to believe she was hitting her stride as a mother. It felt like her family was settling into their new life out in the country, but misplacing Granny’s ring had her questioning all of her decisions.

Should we have stayed in town? Sold Quitman House? Was this all just one big mistake? Why did I think I could manage things like Daddy?

Though she hid it out of necessity, the truth was that she hadn’t laughed once in a single year after losing her father — not once in an entire year. It took a full trip around the sun before she could access that kind of joy again. Life’s demands and tough losses kept it out of reach and inaccessible for ages right at the onset of marriage and motherhood, two of the most celebratory moments in a woman’s life, an absolute tragedy. It was the hardest time she’d known.

But eventually, a moment so hilarious, so utterly ridiculous and unbelievable forced the laughter out of her again. With just the flush of a toilet her youngest daughter’s desire to know if her daddy’s new watch could glow underwater so tickled Ellen’s funny bone (having told her husband repeatedly that it was an unnecessary extravagance and a show pony’s treasure) that witnessing it head down the drain filled her with immeasurable joy and restored her laughter, filling her with light. Turns out, simply finding her daughter in her bathroom taking notes as her husband’s pricy wristband circled the bowl was just what her broken heart needed. And though her husband saw this as his timepiece’s gruesome end, Ellen viewed it as her new beginning.

It must have been around here... Yes! I’d just passed the last gate to the hunting trails before I stopped the van.

Now moving at a snail’s pace and tightly gripping the steering wheel, she’s hoping to encounter her skid marks around the upcoming curve.

THERE THEY ARE! YES! Okay… Stop, Ellen!

Coming to a full stop, she rolls her window down and pokes her head out of the vehicle. Slowly, she begins inching forward, scanning the ground as she progresses. She can’t make out much, but there’s enough light to see that nothing is standing out from the dirt and gravel. And frustratingly, after ten yards the scene of the afternoon’s melodrama is now behind her, disappointingly anticlimactic — no ring.

Letting out a big sigh, Ellen follows it up with, “Well, damn.” She looks back at the stretch of road she just covered utterly crestfallen. She was certain she would find it.

With her hope dashed and the clock still ticking, she knows she can’t stay out any longer with two sleeping toddlers and an early-rising husband back at the house. She’s already been gone at least ten minutes, and anything more is too great a gamble. She can come back and check further once the sun comes up. It’s best to just call it a night. After all, she’s gonna need all the sleep she can get to face the day tomorrow.

Accepting defeat, Ellen turns the wheel of her van sharply into the high bank of the country road, preparing for a three point turn, accompanied by another big sigh and the swelling of a few tears.

Reverse. Sigh. Forward. Sigh. Reverse, and forward again.

Wiping the frustration and disappointment from her eyes, she clings to the possibility that Granny’s ring could turn up later, but all she can think of in this moment is how she’s let everyone down.

How will I tell my sisters?! What will everyone think of me losing Granny’s ring while spanking my kids? Jesus, take the wheel!

Utterly defeated by her bad luck, she’s suddenly slamming on brakes again, leaving a second set of skid marks in the road today. Through her weariness, she sees something tiny emanating from the nothingness before her.

That’s gotta be a damn gum wrapper or the tab off a beer can, she shrugs, refusing to hope otherwise.

She lets off the brake slightly, allowing the van to roll forward an inch, and the glimmer in the dirt expands to a twinkle. Another inch forward and the object is practically glowing with white light. One more inch and her high beams reveal an iceberg dead ahead, blinding her with an otherworldly glow.

Squinting in disbelief, Ellen throws the van into Park, flings open her door, and jumps her barefoot tuchus out of the vehicle all in one motion, falling over herself to reach the source of the supernatural luminescence.

Snatching up her nightgown, she crouches down and retrieves the bright light from the dirt road. Unable to focus on the small object in her hand, she turns around to utilize her high beams, trying to make sense of what she’s holding.

“LORD LOVE A DUCK!!” she hollers triumphantly. “Granny’s solitaire!!” Wide eyed and slack-jawed, she stares at the lost treasure in her hand.

So I drove right over it? And it’s still in one piece?! Holy shit!

Marveling at the absurdity of it all — losing the ring and the resulting wild goose chase that became her evening —she’s wondering how in the world her tiny ring survived half a day’s traffic of farming vehicles and family drivers?

“It’s a miracle!” Ellen declares. “Thank you, Jesus, shepherds, and wisemen!” she directs to the heavens, certain all who keep watch over her from there thoroughly enjoyed the comedy of her evening.

Looking down to where her ring had been lying in wait, its discovery begins to make sense. She couldn’t spot the lost treasure in her approach because the diamond was facing away from her towards town, not positioned to reflect her headlights coming out of the Bottom. It only returned her light after changing her perspective.

Dusting the dirt from the solitaire with her nightgown, she quickly slips it back onto her finger and grasps it tightly over her heart. “Alright, Granny, never again! I promise!”

Her heart racing from the thrill of her discovery, she’s bursting with joy. Like an overpriced, over-accessorized wristwatch circling the toilet bowl, the moment is unparalleled in its magnificence, just too wild to be true and as funny as it is unbelievable.

She’s certain no one will believe her tale, but no matter. She can feel the tide turning in her favor. Maybe she and her family are right where they need to be. Perhaps she’s not the world’s worst mother despite her feelings otherwise. Regardless, the day proves it’s time to lean into her faith, award herself the benefit of the doubt, and end her excessive questioning. After all, the ring was not misplaced at the house, down the disposal, or hiding in her van. It truly flew from her finger while she was trying her best to be a good mother, landing smack dab in the middle of the road and unknowingly left behind.

Getting back on her feet, Ellen revels again at the sight of her grandmother’s sparkling ring returned to her finger. Still astonished by her luck, she shakes her head in disbelief, grinning ear to ear. “Lord, love a duck!” she adds once more.

And clutching her little lighthouse to her heart, barefoot in her nightgown on the quiet country road, Ellen throws her head back and lets her laughter roar forth, illuminating the darkness surrounding her from the inside out.

*   *   *   *   *

Approaching the behemoth before me I try to recall my tactic from last year. Did I start at the top or the bottom? Pretty sure it was the top, I think, scratching my beard in the darkening dining room. Out the adjacent window I can see the space between the clouds shrinking as predicted, shutting out the last bits of morning sunlight, bringing a smile to my face.

A large storm system is finally developing overhead, preparing to blanket the Miss-Lou with precipitation, and the conditions are perfect — not windy or stormy, just steady, heavy rainfall — arriving with the promise from the Jackson weatherman that it’ll persist all day, bringing along with it cooler temperatures.

Reaching behind the beast I feel for the light switch. My fingers find it and push in the dial, slowly rotating it clockwise, adjusting the light from dim to bright. It fills the interior with a warm glow amplified by the many reflective surfaces therein.

I stand back and take it all in. It’s a hell of a view despite the grime. God only knows where the hazy film comes from, but like clockwork it reappears, typically a year after its last cleaning, demanding individual, piece by piece attention. It sounds worse than it is, though. I don’t mind this job, actually. In fact, I look forward to it, and I’ve been waiting for a rainy day like today to take this project on.

“Alright baby, and what about this one?”

“Um, this cabinet came from Quitman, and it has a sister piece that’s identical to it still in the Bottom at Aunt Ellen’s.”

“Right! And they were both made by a craftsman friend of Daddy’s. The wood came out of the Bottom too. Truly, the man was an artist. I don’t recall his name at the moment, but Ellen knows it. I’ll ask her and then write it down somewhere.”

“That’s probably best. There’s a lot to remember here, Mama,” I acknowledge with a nervous chuckle, seeing the contents of our surroundings anew, not as the furniture I grew up with but as a cast of characters with unique attributes and historical details I’m realizing I will now have to commit to memory.

“Y’know what, I’ll write a brief description of each item on a little piece of paper and tuck it somewhere inside. That’s what your Granny did with her antiques, and since I’m doing it for one I might as well go ahead and do it for all. Remind me to do that. Okay?”

“Will do, Mama. Just in case,” I agree, relieved that our family history as illustrated in furniture and small treasures won’t be dependent upon my memory alone for posterity, assuming I remind her to do so.

“And there’s another piece, too,” my mother says, back to business, “…made by the same craftsman. Do you know which one?”

“Is it the armoire in your bedroom?”

“Nope. It’s the secretary in the front room,” she corrects me, noticeably disappointed by my response. “If you look at the cornice up top it has the same hand-carved motif as this piece, and it’s also made from Quitman hardwood. I’ll point it out when we hit that room next.”

I nod in acknowledgement.

“Okay, so you know about Daddy’s cut glass?” she asks, refocusing our attention on her father’s display case.

With my approach decided, I head to the kitchen to ready the space and the tools needed for the job. Aside from soap and water, the third essential element is music; it makes any tedious task manageable. Grabbing my phone, I sync it to my little portable speaker and cue up the “RAIN” playlist, bypassing more commonly employed favorites like “Most Played” and “Recently Added.”

The “RAIN” playlist consists of songs that either have “rain” in the title or the lyrics (unsurprisingly) — think “Fire and Rain” by James Taylor or “Blame It On the Rain” by Milli Vanilli accompanied by more traditional standards like Etta James’ rendition of “Stormy Weather.”

With the soundtrack in motion, I move to other tasks, first plugging the sink drain with its stopper and then lining its bottom with two thick bath towels, creating a soft surface to cushion the fragile crystal from its hard bottom. Then I drizzle in a little dish soap, turn the water to warm, and fill the oversized tub. Finally, I saturate a dishtowel in the running water, wring it out, and flatten it to the surface of my sturdy tray and head back to the dining room.

“Alright. Let’s see, Mama. Um, most of it was Paw Paw Frank’s, hence the two handmade matching cabinets he commissioned for his ever-growing collection.”

“Right, baby! Exactly. Kaye, Ellen, and I ended up with Daddy’s crystal. All these big pieces you see here, the platters…” Mama says, rattling off her acquisitions and describing the pieces her sisters received from the hoard.

“…and the banana boat!” I holler, interrupting her upon noticing it. “You were happy about ending up with that one,” I recall, remembering her excitement when it first arrived in Atlanta.

Mama grins and reaches into the cabinet to retrieve her treasured treasure.

“What can I say? I just love it,” she declares, her eyes sparkling at a piece of her father in her hands, her fingertips taking in the texture of the cut glass. “Ellen got Granny’s punchbowl and punch cups, Kaye got the ice cream bowl and a couple of the larger pieces. I chose the banana boat, globe vase, a couple platters and never looked back.”

The quirkiness of its name and shape contrasts with the more formal trays and bowls of the collection. It’s hard not to imagine it holding one gigantic banana split. It’s practical, extravagant, ridiculous, and hilarious. Of course it’s her favorite.

Though constructed of sturdy hardwood, these handcrafted display cases are composed mainly of glass, giving the impression that the crystal it holds is floating, but its appearance belies its considerable heft, especially when combined with the weight of its contents. Surely it weighs as much as a baby grand.

As the current caretaker my worry is that the weight of all that cut glass has strained the cabinet over time. My Aunt Ellen lost two shelves in hers through no fault of her own. One of her supports gave out without warning bringing two crystal-filled shelves down into the bottom of her cabinet, crushing most everything along the way.

So with its sister cabinet, I tend to move slowly, respectfully, carefully opening the door on the right first while holding my breath as it squeaks out of place. Then, reaching behind the left side door, I unlatch the locks at top and bottom and hold my breath again, knowing what’s coming. All’s smooth and silent until about two-thirds of the way ajar when it elicits a loud heavy pop as it adjusts to being out of its closed position. Despite its predictability, it steals the breath and stops the heart, regardless of how many times I’ve survived it before.

“And now what about these glasses, baby?”

“Okay, so the matching pieces, these and these, these and these,” I single out, pointing into the cabinet, “…were Granny’s.”

“Right. The Highballs, Collinses, and Champagne Globes or Coupes as some folks call them, were your Great Granny Clarabelle’s and the rest are all mine.”

“Highballs, Collinses, and Champagne Globes or Coupes. Got it. And these on the top shelf were hers, too,” I proclaim incorrectly.

“No. Most of these up top I bought myself. A few were Granny’s, and I collected the rest so I’d have a double set. They match my wedding crystal in the china cabinet over there.”

I look over to the china cabinet, make note of the similarity in stemware, and then shift focus back to the crystal cabinet.

“There looks to be an odd number of some of the styles in here, Mama,” I notice aloud.

“Casualties of a good time!” she says proudly. “And you’ll notice a bunch are chipped, too, so their value is largely sentimental at this point in case you were seeing dollar signs.”

I look her in the eye and smile. “Really? You think I’d try to cash in on the family crystal?!”

She mirrors my smile with her own, revealing that she was only kidding, knowing full well her youngest son lives for any opportunity to bring out the fancy stuff.

Moving on with instructions she says, “Just remember, when you’re hosting, give the glasses in the best condition to your guests and take the chipped one for yourself, family included, not that your family would care much about a chipped glass.”

“Not nearly not as much as what goes in it,” I dare say with a wink.

“Ha! Ain’t that the truth?” she replies with a little laugh.

After a final once-over of the top shelves she adds, “Okay, I think that’s it for the glasses. Oh wait! And those are Granny’s Cordial glasses down there on that shelf, too. You do know what a cordial is, don’t you?”

At first glance the task appears pretty overwhelming. There are six glass shelves plus the space at the bottom of the cabinet all filled to the brim, but I have a roadmap; my instructions came from the previous caretaker. I just have to ask myself, What would Mama do?

Usually an answer surfaces immediately. In my mind I see my mother covering the dining room table with a protective, cushioned liner and then topping that with a sturdy, everyday table cloth, creating a soft, spacious surface on which to set my tray to load/unload the contents of the cabinet. With no need to reinvent the wheel, I do the same, preparing the table for the task at hand.

Thinking again of Ellen’s cabinet, seeing a slow motion crash in my head, I decide it best to pull all the heavier pieces down first out of caution in an effort to keep the weight evenly distributed as I go. Listening for any sighs of relief from the cabinet, out come the bigger pieces — large, heavy vases, pitchers, decanters, and wide platters — and I space them, one by one, behind me at the far end of the table to be cleaned last, leaving room for the tray on the end nearest the cabinet. Then it’s on to the glasses — no small fete. 

This laborious, methodical process will take the whole morning or possibly part of the afternoon — or that’s my hope anyway, to soak up the entirety of the “RAIN” playlist at least once. But despite my attempts to prolong the task, typically, it only takes a few hours to get it all done.

“You were always begging me to ‘use the fancy stuff for once’ when you were little. Remember? I wish I had a dollar for every time you asked me! That’s why I always put the dusting on your chore list because it wasn’t work for you. You enjoyed it.”

Blushing, I’m a little embarrassed at having my childhood whimsy noted, but she’s not wrong. I had an obvious affinity for all the shiny, fancy things in our household, antique furniture and china and silver and cut glass and linens alike, an appreciation that’s only grown over time.

All I can say in response is, “Well, the dusting’s what you put on my to-do list, so I dusted.”

  The basic approach here is to transport the contents, tray by tray, from the dining room to the laundry room, pass it all through the suds, and then sponge, rinse, and dry with a flour sack towel before lining it all up on the nearby kitchen table to hold until everything’s been cleaned. This allows for the opportunity to wipe down the cabinet’s glass shelves, mirror backing, and glass doors (also marred by the hazy film). Then, finally, all is returned the same way it was emptied, tray by tray, piece by piece, back into Paw Paw Frank’s hand-crafted display case.

After all these years it’s fitting that my grandfather’s cabinet (and this one-third of his collection of cut glass) finally made its way back to his hometown of Natchez, Mississippi. Upon my parents’ inevitable return to their roots, the furniture I grew up with — antique dressers, tables, beds, and armoires of earlier generations of family — booked a return trip to the other side of Alabama after thirty years in Georgia, furnishing my parents’ new old “forever” home. Appropriately, it all fit right in, making so much more sense in a Natchez Victorian cottage than it ever did in a Mid-Mod, ranch-style, 1960’s Atlanta sprawler.

“I’ve been here your whole existence, Jamey, and I’d bet my life that you’re gonna be the one who cares enough to keep up with all this. You’re the only one who enjoys it! Your brother loves his family, but he’s not much interested in dusting antiques or hand-washing china, and since he’s in Colorado and you’re practically next door in Tuscaloosa… See where I’m going here?”

“Well, you’re probably right about Brother,” I agree,

“Do you know how many times I found my baby boy gazing into my crystal and china cabinets completely lost in his own imagination? I know full well all this stuff makes you happy, probably for most of the same reasons as me, which is why I want you to know all this.”

“Well, it does make me happy, Mama, for whatever reason. That I can’t deny.”

“That’s what I thought,” she responds knowingly. “Just remember, whether your brother’s here to clean it or not, half of it is his, too, okay?”

“Of course, Mama. I’ll bill him for the cleaning, but God only knows how long it’ll be before I have a place for nice things like this. There’s no guarantee I’ll ever do much better than I’m doing right now teaching. What in the world is a penniless art professor going to do with a cabinet full of crystal?”

“Pop a cork and have your friends over! Who cares if you live in a shoebox?! Besides, I doubt it’ll be that way forever. And if you never have a place for it that’s fine. Just don’t sell any of it!” she cautions. “Your peoples will haunt you forever.”

“Mama, I’d never…” I have to assure her again.

I dip a champagne globe from the first tray of crystal into the soapy water, bring it up and sponge its surface, rinse it, dry it, and hold it up to inspect it… crystal clear. Then I towel it off and set it to the side.

From the freezer, I retrieve the cheap bottle of bubbly I purchased for today’s event. I pop its cork and pour a little champagne into Great Granny Clarabelle’s freshly cleaned chalice, watching the little champagne bubbles race for the surface, wondering when it was last filled and by whom. Raising my glass to the overcast sky out the laundry room window before me, I summon all those spirits whose memory and treasures are the focus of the day and take a ceremonial sip.

“Cheers, y’all,” I toast to the rain clouds.

“Now, again, none of this is all that valuable because of the small chips here and there. Its true value is in who loved it, who it reminds me of and the occasions it witnessed. You know, I see Granny’s glasses and I talk to her or Daddy’s crystal and talk to him. Your Paw Paw Frank’s very hands held most of these pieces, the same ones I can touch with mine now. That’s priceless. However, there are still a few pieces in here whose combined value would command a high dollar. Just remember that when you’re cleaning them,” she says with a wink.

“Which ones?” I ask, intrigued.

“Um, this one, this one, and the big globe vase.”

I nod in acknowledgement.

“And what’s this thing?” I ask, pointing to a curio on one of the lower shelves. “The thing shaped like a double-ended baby’s rattle?”

“That’s a cake server ‘rest’ or ‘dumbbell’. You set your knife or cake server there after cutting into cake or pie, keeping the sullied server off your table linen, preventing messes or stains.”

“That’s awful fancy,” I say, amused by the single-function tool.

“In a sense, but it’s practical, actually. This little thing’s been used over and over for showers, weddings, birthdays, and holidays, you name it. If it happened in the seventies, eighties, or early nineties this little cake rest was there. I’m surprised you don’t remember it.”

“And these?” I ask, pointing to one of the lower shelves.

“Oh these?” she asks, pointing as well?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“These are called ‘salt pinches’ or ‘salt cellars’. They take the place of salt and pepper shakers on the table. Since I only have six I just mix the salt and pepper together and place them between guests to share.”

With the bulk of the stemware and all the knickknacky pieces cleaned (i.e. single-use tools, oil & vinegar cruets, small bowls, dishes, a perfume bottle, etc.), a few trips will quickly knock out all the large items still awaiting their turn at the far end of the dining room table, and then a final trip will take care of the items I added to the collection myself.

“I want you to know this stuff because someday your daddy and I won’t be here to tell you about it.”

“Mama, don’t say that. I can’t even bear the thought.”

“Honey, if this life has taught me anything it’s that we’re all gonna go sooner or later. As your Grammaw used to say, ‘None of us is getting out of here alive!’ And after losing Kenny like that I don’t want our family to be unprepared. Lordy, he almost took me with him,” she says still processing her grief.

“Hence, today’s history lesson?” I ask pointedly, now aware of what’s happening here.

“Exactly,” she replies, unbothered being caught red-handed.

“It still hasn’t sunk in for me that he’s gone. I know you’ve been missing him big time,” I carefully hedge.

“Who are you telling?! I’ve barely been back in Natchez three years, and that rascal’s gone and checked out on me! We were supposed to spend our retirement reveling in Martini Wednesdays together on his back porch. I reassured him of that for thirty years, that I’d make it back here, and your daddy and I finally did, finally made it home to Natchez, and now here I am without him.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m glad you were already living here when it happened. It would’ve been much harder were you still in Atlanta.”

“I guess. It still doesn’t feel real to me,” she says, trailing off a moment before adding, “And with both of us right at the damn finish line of our careers! I could just kill him for dying!”

I return to the dining room for my last load of treasure. From the cabinet I pull out the pieces I’ve added to the collection myself — my Uncle Kenny’s martini glasses, Aunt Ellen’s Christmas Spode, Louis & Christine’s rocks glasses, and a pair of pink cordial glasses from my Aunt Paula. None of it is fine crystal, but like the pieces from Paw Paw Frank, Granny, and Mama, it’s all invaluable to me. The same way Mama would talk to her father through his banana boat or her grandmother via her stemware these treasured vessels keep me connected to my team, the Happy Hour crew that taught me how to mix a drink, stock a bar, deck the halls, cook a legendary casserole, and keep on moving.

Most of it only gets used around the holidays much like everything else keeping it company, but occasionally, life demands a martini in a fancy glass, and other times it calls for champagne, like today. I find it pairs beautifully with this annual event, the soak-sponge-rinse-dry-repeat celebration of my bullheaded attempt to keep the ball rolling in the absence of those who charted the way — the perfect way to spend a rainy day in Natchez, Mississippi.

“At the end of the day does it really matter if anyone knows the story behind all this stuff? In the grand scheme of things, of course not — only to us. It’s just glasses and dishes and furniture, kinda like how your Aunt Ellen speaks about Quitman House. Even though we all think of it like a family member, too, it’s just a house. And despite lifetimes of our family memories — births, weddings, holidays, funerals — we have to remember that. After all, we’ve seen everything from crops to cattle to cousins vaporize overnight. It’s only by your Aunt Ellen’s sheer will that Quitman house is still inhabited by family today.”

All this talk of a future without Mama is taking its toll, and my capacity to absorb more is waning. Sensing my focus wandering, my mother streamlines her message, determined to ensure that her words get through.

“You’re young, baby. It may be hard to imagine things not as they are, but it’s important to know that life can change quickly and without notice. That’s been the biggest lesson for me in losing Kenny.”

Her advice sends pings of worry shooting through my bones.

“Alright, Mama, I hear you,” I say, trying to change the subject.

“I mean, honey, do you think anyone’s gonna want my Delftware when I’m gone?” she asks, gesturing about the dining room to a collection of her own.

“Your what-ware?”

“My Delftware, my blue transferware collection.”

“What?

“My blue and white plates!” she exclaims, bewildered by my lack of recognition.

“Oh! Right! Of course!”

“Your father and brother won’t be interested in any of that either.”

“Probably not, but I love ‘em, Mama.”

“You do?” she responds with a lilt.

“Of course,” I assure her, taking the bait. “Throw your Delftware in with the rest. I’ll care for your collection in whatever shoebox I call home. Your blue and white plates remind me of you, and they have wonderful little paintings of far off places in the center. I’ve always loved that about them. And they look mighty fine here in your new old house. Y’all have really created a beautiful home here, Mama.”

“You think so?” she asks, actually surprised this time.

“Absolutely. I still think y’all are crazy for moving back to Mississippi, but Brother and I are relieved you and Dad aren’t gonna be blue-haired and driving in Atlanta. It’s just so fast now and only getting faster.”

“Well, you boys are right about that, and I’m happy to be off Atlanta roads. I can get anywhere in Natchez in five minutes or less. My only challenge is taking a left on Canal Street!” she jokes, repeating her new one-liner.

“So y’all don’t have any regrets about moving back?”

“Nope. None. I miss all my Atlanta pals, but life’s just so easy in downtown Natchez. Everyone and everything’s all right here so close together, family, friends, the church… the butcher, the baker and candlestick maker,” she says rhythmically with a smile. “And there’s something happening every single weekend, a festival for every occasion. It’s unbelievable! I just wish your dad and I had done it a little sooner. Then maybe I would’ve had a little more time with Kenny… and Mama, too.”

Pausing a moment and turning away, staring back into the crystal cabinet, thinking of the time she couldn’t get back, she takes a deep breath and holds it a second before releasing it with resignation. Even without seeing her face, I know instinctively she’s a little teary. Taking my cue, I step forward and wrap her up in one of the big bear hugs her peoples known for.

“Aw! Thanks, honey. I needed that,” she says, bucking up, turning to face me, back to business. “Now c’mon. Let’s keep going. We’ve got lots of ground to cover. What about all the beds?” she asks. “Do you know the details behind all those? They each have their own story, too.”