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Antique, The
My six-year-old granddaughter stares at me as if she is seeing me for the first time. “Grandma, you are an antique,” she says. “You are old. Antiques are old. You are my antique.”
I am not satisfied to let the matter rest there. I take out Webster’s Dictionary and read the definition to Jenny. I explain, “An antique is not only just old; it’s an object existing since or belonging to earlier times . . . a work of art . . . a piece of furniture. Antiques are treasured,” I tell Jenny as I put away the dictionary. “They have to be handled carefully because they sometimes are very valuable.”
According to various customs laws, in order to be qualified as an antique, the object has to be at least one hundred years old.
“I’m only sixty-seven,” I remind Jenny.
We look around the house for other antiques besides me. There is a bureau that was handed down from one aunt to another and finally to our family. “It’s very old,” I tell Jenny. “I try to keep it polished, and I show it off whenever I can. You do that with antiques.” When Jenny gets older and understands such things, I might also tell her that whenever I look at the bureau or touch it, I am reminded of the aunt so dear to me who gave me the bureau as a gift. I see her face again, though she is no longer with us. I even hear her voice and recall her smile. I remember myself as a little girl leaning against this antique, listening to one of her stories. The bureau does that for me.
There is a picture on the wall purchased at a garage sale. It is dated 1867. “Now that’s an antique,” I boast. “Over one hundred years old.” Of course it is marked up and scratched and not in very good condition. “Sometimes age does that,” I tell Jenny. “But the marks are good marks. They show living, being around. That’s something to display with pride. In fact, sometimes, the more an object shows age, the more valuable it can become.” It is important that I believe this for my own self-esteem.
Our tour of antiques continues. There is a vase on the floor. It has been in my household for a long time. I’m not certain where it came from, but I didn’t buy it new. And then there is the four-poster bed, sent to me forty years ago from an uncle who slept in it for fifty years.
The one thing about antiques, I explain to Jenny, is that they usually have a story. They’ve been in one home and then another, handed down from one family to another, traveling all over the place. They’ve lasted through years and years. They could have been tossed away, or ignored, or destroyed or lost. But instead, they survived.
For a moment Jenny looks thoughtful. “I don’t have any antiques but you,” she says. Then her face brightens. “Could I take you to school for show-and-tell?”
“Only if I fit into your backpack,” I answer.
And then her antique lifted her up and embraced her in a hug that would last through the years.
Reprinted by permission of Harriet May Savitz (c) 2002 from Chicken Soup for the Grandparent’s Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Meladee McCarty and Hanoch McCarty. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.
Seed Jar, The
Being the youngest of four girls, I usually saw to
Grandma Lou’s needs at family gatherings. Lucinda Mae
Hamish - Grandma Lou for short - was a tall twig of a
woman, with a long gray braid and sharp features. She
was the undisputed Master Gardener in our family, for
she had come of age in the Depression, where she
learned to use every old thing twice. And when it was
worn out, she’d use it again - in her garden.
When Grandma Lou visited, she brought packets of her
own seeds, folded in scraps of envelopes and labeled
with instructions. Her handwriting was precise and
tomatoes and carrots and marigolds for my sisters -
foolproof sorts of seeds, for my sisters were impatient
and neglectful gardeners. But for me, she saved the
more fragile varieties.
At the time of my next oldest sister’s wedding, Grandma
Lou was eighty-four and living alone, still weeding her
large beds herself. And as she had for my older sisters’
weddings, Grandma Lou gave Jenny a Mason jar layered with
seeds from her garden.
Round and round the colorful spiral of seeds, curled in
the fat-mouthed jar. Heavy beans in rich, deep earth
tones held the bottom steady. Next came corn kernels
polished in cheesecloth until they gleamed like gold. Flat
seeds of cucumber, squash and watermelon filled the upper
reaches, interspersed with the feathery dots of marigolds.
At the very top, separated with cheesecloth, were the
finer herb seeds of mint and basil. The jar was crowned
with a gleaming brass lid and cheerful ribbon. There was
a lifetime supply of seeds pressed into the jar; a whole
garden’s worth of food for the new couple.
Two years later, Grandma Lou suffered a stroke, which forced
her into an assisted-living apartment. And though she was
unable to attend my own wedding that year, I was delighted
to see a Mason jar among the brightly wrapped gifts at my
reception.
But unlike its predecessors, my jar held no graceful pattern
of seeds. Instead, it was a haphazard blend, as if all the
seeds had been dumped into a pillowcase and then poured into
the jar. Even the lid seemed like an after-thought, for it
was rusty and well used. But considering Grandma Lou’s state
of health, I feel blessed that she remembered the gentle
tradition at all.
My groom, Mark, found work in the city, and we moved into a
small apartment. A garden was all but impossible, so I
consoled myself by placing the seed jar in our living room.
There it stood as a promise to return to the garden.
Grandma Lou died the year our twins were born. By the time
our sons were toddlers, I had moved the seed jar to the top
of the refrigerator, where their curious little hands couldn’t
tip over my treasure.
Eventually, we moved to a house, but there still wasn’t
enough sun in our yard to plant a proper garden. Struggling
yet courageous fescue grass vied for what little space there
was between the dandelions and it was all I could do to keep
it mowed and occasionally watered.
The boys grew up overnight, much like the weeds I continuously
pulled. Soon they were out on their own, and Mark was looking
at retirement. We spent our quiet evenings planning for a
little place in the country, where Mark could fish and I could
have a proper garden.
A year later, Mark was hit by a drunk driver, paralyzing him
from the neck down. Our savings went to physical therapy, and
Mark gained some weak mobility in his arms and hands. But the
simple day-to-day necessities still required a nurse.
Between the hospital visits and the financial worries, I was
exhausted. Soon Mark would be released to my care, and at half
his size, I knew I wouldn’t even be able to lift him into our
bed. I didn’t know what I would do. We couldn’t afford a day
nurse, let alone full-time help, and assisted-care apartments
were way out of our range.
Left to myself, I was so tired I wouldn’t even bother to eat.
But Jenny, my sister who lived nearby, visited me daily,
forcing me to take a few bites of this or that. One night, she
arrived with a pan of lasagna, and she chatted cheerfully as
we set our places. When she asked about Mark, I broke down in
tears, explaining how he’d be home soon and how tight our money
was running. She offered her own modest savings-even offered to
move in and help take care of him-but I knew Mark’s pride
wouldn’t allow it.
I stared down at my plate, my appetite all but gone. In the
quiet that fell between us, despair settle down to dinner like
an old friend. Finally, I pulled myself together and asked her
to help me with the dishes. Jenny nodded and rose to put the
leftover lasagna away. As the refrigerator door flopped to a
close, the seed jar on top rattled against the wall. Jenny
turned at the sound. “What’s this?” she asked, and reached for
the jar.
Looking up from the sink, I said, “Oh, that’s just Grandma Lou’s
seed jar. We each got one for a wedding present, remember?”
Jenny looked at me, then studied the jar.
“You mean you never opened it?” she asked.
“Never had a patch of soil good enough for a garden, I guess.”
Jenny tucked the jar in one arm and grabbed my sudsy hand in
her other. “Come on!” she said excitedly.
Half dragging me, she went back to the dinner table. It took
three tries, but she finally got the lid loose and overturned
the jar upon the table. Seeds went bouncing everywhere! “What
are you doing?!” I cried, scrambling to catch them. A pile
of faded brown and tan seeds slid out around an old yellow
envelope. Jenny plucked it from the pile and handed it to me.
“Open it,” she said, with a smile. Inside I found five stock
certificates, each for one hundred shares. Reading the company
names, our eyes widened in recognition. “Do you have any idea
what these are worth by now?” she asked.
I gathered a handful of seeds to my lips and said a silent
prayer of thanks to Grandma Lou. She had been tending a garden
for me all these years and had pressed a lifetime supply of
love into that old Mason Jar.
By: Dee Berry
From The Fifth Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
Right One, The
My grandma and grandpa celebrated their 55th anniversary
surrounded by their children, grandchildren, and a
lifetime collection of friends. I thought that Grandma
had forgotten anything she may have known about being
single. I was wrong.
As she was getting ready for the party, arranging her
long white hair in a French twist, my grandma commented,
“I’m always surprised when I look in the mirror and see
all these wrinkles.” Holding her hand over her heart,
she added, “In here, I’m still a young woman.” She
applied bright red lipstick.
I sat on the bed watching her primp. “So, what is the
secret of a long happy marriage?”
She sprayed floral cologne on her wrists. “Don’t settle.”
I must have looked puzzled.
“Don’t settle. That is all you need to know.” She tucked
a stray wisp of hair in place.
I twisted my own hair around my fingers hoping to coax it
into curl. Turning the page of Grandma’s photo album, I
saw an out-of-focus photo of nondescript steps.
“Where’s this?”
“That is where your grandpa proposed to me; we had known
each other six weeks. When he first saw me, he told his
cousin that he had seen the girl he was going to marry.
That was before we had even spoken one word to each
other.”
“Six weeks?” My images of Edwardian modesty shattered. My
grandma was born in 1890. Opposite the picture of the
steps was a sepia studio portrait of a ringleted young
woman with limpid eyes. That was Grandma, in the high-
collared lace blouse, her mouth primly shut, her huge
eyes staring off into the unknown future. “I thought
people used to have a long courtship.”
I had a long courtship, it just wasn’t with your
grandfather.” She giggled. Grandma’s eyes had not changed
since that young girl held her rigid pose for the
photographer.
My grandma was one of 13 children. Her parents had a
large house which Grandma described as a mansion. They
were an unusual family for the turn-of-the century. One
of Grandma’s sisters was a bookkeeper. Her sister Ceil
was an attorney; a plaque on a building in McKeesport,
Pennsylvania marks the site of her office.
Grandma always wanted to be a wife and mother. She was
25 when she married my grandfather.
“Grandma, I always thought things were different back
then. I thought maybe Grandpa came over and sat around
the den or parlor or whatever for years before he
proposed.”
Grandma smiled and moved closer, just like one of my
friends settling in for a good gossip. “I kept company
with another man for six years. He kept pushing me to
marry him. I kept saying `I don’t want to leave my
mother,’ or `I’m not ready.’ I said this, I said that.
The truth was, there was no spark, he was nice but he
just wasn’t the one.”
I leaned forward. The years had fallen off Grandma’s
voice. Her speech sounded young, expectant.
“Everyone kept saying, `Annie, so when are we dancing
at your wedding?’ People talked-people have always liked
to talk-there was talk I’d end up an old maid. We took
that kind of thing seriously. I didn’t say anything. I
kept going out with him, but something stopped me from
getting engaged. He wasn’t the one. My mother was
worried about me. I wasn’t worried. I knew that there
was someone, somewhere. I wasn’t ready to settle.”
She looked at our faces in the ornately framed mirror.
In my face she saw the young woman she had been, in
her face I saw my future. She squeezed my hand.
“So, then I met your grandfather. He saw me out walking
with my friends and found-who knows how-that he knew my
cousin. In a few days, he managed to come calling with
my cousin. I never saw the other man again.”
“Six weeks later your grandpa proposed.” She started
laughing until tears gathered in her eyes, tiny droplets
glinting like the diamond stud earrings in her ears. “He
said he needed a wife to manage his money. He didn’t
have two dimes to rub together.”
“Did you know that before you married him?” I asked,
thinking of the tales I had heard about her well-off
parents.
“Of course I knew that. I also knew he was the one I
had waited for,” she said. She looked at our faces
in the ornately framed mirror. In my face she saw the
young woman she had been; in her face I saw my future.
I kissed Grandma’s cheek, knowing I would never settle.
I would wait for the right one, and now I was certain I
would know him when I saw him.
Diane Goldberg
from Chicken Soup for the Single’s Soul
by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Jennifer Read
Hawthorne and Marci Shimoff copyright 1999 Canfield and Hansen