Keepsakes

Everyone likes keepsakes. At least, everyone I know likes them. They remind us of people we care about or of our own past lives or just of times gone by.

I have my mother’s mixing bowl. It’s big and yellow and would be nondescript to anyone but me and my siblings. We can all remember the countless times Mom filled it with potato  salad for our forays to Lake Sammamish or just a barbecue at home. I live in fear I’ll drop and break it but I can’t bear to put it away. It’s a working bowl that needs to be used. And I don’t think I’ve ever touched it without thinking of Mom.

My grandmother’s breakfast bowls are put away in a safe place because the family would collectively arrange my demise if anything happened to them. We used to visit for about a month each summer, staying at her house in Glendale and playing with a never-ending supply of cousins. The bowls are clear glass with fluted edges, all of which have been worn away in varying degrees by thousands of uses.  One has almost no flutes left at all. They were the bowls from which we’d all eat cereal in the little breakfast room in Grandma K’s house on summer mornings while Mom and her mom and sisters talked and just enjoyed their time together. I wonder how many little fingers and spoon clanks were required to remove those flutes.

I have a teacup and saucer from my great-grandmother and one from Great-great-(great?)-aunt Lottie. They’re on the curio shelf in our family room, right next to Aunt Suzie’s porcelain ballerina.

The popsicle-stick wishing well was the product of one of my Cub Scout projects. It  was a Mother’s Day present for Mom, and at some point, she decorated it with a porcelain bird and some fake ivy. Don’t know why. It's hideous and I wouldn’t trade it for two cat’s eyes and a steely.

The commemorative drinking glasses from the Seattle World’s Fair bring to mind a summer with innumerable visitors, most of them relatives and at least one set of impostors. Yeah, one family showed up claiming a close connection to my mother’s sister. They were the worst guests ever, totally taking advantage of us but Mom and Dad didn’t want to embarrass my aunt… It wasn’t until later in the summer that we all figured out these freeloaders were just that and didn’t really know anyone in the family well enough to justify a week of free room and board.

The little Starrett square was my Uncle Bud’s. I was at the house after he passed and Aunt Kitty told me to take one thing as a keepsake. The square was both well-worn and sitting out on the bench. It may have been the last tool he used.

Speaking of tools, I have a full set of braces and bits from my grandfather. Sometimes, hand-powered tools will go where power can’t and besides, they're fun to use. My relationship with Ol’ Vernon was strained, but we both took pride in fine woodwork. And these were his drills.

I do all my writing on computers these days, but perched on top of the bookcase behind me is a 100-year-old typewriter that still works, if I could find a ribbon.  And on a lower shelf, within arm’s reach are doodads our daughters made in school or Girl Scouts.

I really like photos and old movies and the like. But the best memories reside in things the people used as they went about their lives.