I remember as a little boy hiding underneath the mahogany dining table, holding my knees in my hands for no reason except that I could. Perhaps it was mischief at its finest, but I kept a keen eye on Mama, waiting for her to circle the room and then vanish down the hallway. Perhaps she knew I was there all along.
When she exited, I came out of hiding and stared into the glass panes of her china cabinet, running my fingers along the edges sometimes. Using all my might, I often dragged a dining chair close enough to stand in so that I could get a better view of the top shelves. It was a predictable series of events as I got close enough to touch and Mama rushed in to say, “No! Get down from there before you fall through the glass and cut yourself.”
I am sure she was protecting me from harm, but I think the safety of her pink crystal goblets might have come into play. Anyway, this was our script until I was about 10 years old. After that, I didn’t need a chair to make me taller, and the danger seemed to pass.
To this day, I am obsessed with pretty things such as dishes, glasses and figurines, or as my daddy would refer to them, “dust catchers.” Mama had a grand collection with her two golden peacocks perched in the corners, tiny porcelain bells in the shapes of dolls, hand-painted Easter eggs from the days she did ceramics with Aunt Avis, and my favorite — her wedding china. I spent hours with my knees buried deep in the cushions of that dining chair, arranging the bread plates, pulling napkins through festive napkin rings, or pretending to sip wine from a goblet like I had seen Felicia Gallant do a hundred times on “Another World.” Of course, Mama’s goblets never held anything stronger than sweet tea, and then only on very special occasions.
“Lord, you are a mess,” she would say, then and probably now if she were here. I smile when I think of Mama’s wedding china, and it pleases me to know it found its way home to her eldest granddaughter. Maybe her two little ones will help her set their table one day and our family’s memories will go on for generations, soup bowls and all. I sometimes set my table with Mama’s pink rose china for Valentine’s Day or Easter, and even on a random day when I am missing her a little more than usual.
She guarded her precious things in her china cabinet very much like she fussed over the people she loved. When I walk by my own china cabinet and nobody is looking, I press my face to the cold glass for a moment, run my fingers along the edges, and travel back in time.
Contact former Columbus resident David Creel at [email protected].
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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