*Family Heirlooms: Use 'Em or Lose 'Em

People who save beautiful things for a special occasion drive me a little crazy. If you have something beautiful, don't you deserve to enjoy it whenever you want? You know the folks who have all of their beautiful china on display, but only dust it? The ones who never eat off of their special  I don't understand them.

My stepmom has many family heirlooms from her grandmother and mother that have been passed down to her. She also received beautiful china of her own when she married my dad. Yes, there is a beautiful cabinet in the dining room with everything on display, and there is a buffet filled with actual SILVERware. I'm so proud of her; we use it. We have to wash the dishes by hand, but that's okay; at least she considers us worthy of her lovely dishes. I think it is so special the way her dinner table looks; she has a flair for decorating.

Every family is different; there are those who purge nearly everything, and those who hoard, and everything in between. There are not many things to be passed down in our family. My dad has a cool smoking stand, a triangular cabinet owned by his father that stores pipes and tobacco. My mom has her mom's bedroom set, and she and my aunt take turns wearing a ruby ring that belonged to their mother. Other than those things, there aren't many family heirlooms.

When my grandmother died, guess what I selected when it was my turn? Her beautiful red London Fog wool coat. Not exactly something I will be able to pass on to my daughter; it's showing signs of wear. I have loved using that coat for the last 24 years, and always think of Grandma when I wear it.  

My mother gave me one more thing from Grandma, and it makes me chuckle. I received her sex manual; an old-fashioned book written by a doctor that her doctor gave her when she was a young wife.  

The best part about it is the letter that is tucked inside written by a doctor to my grandmother, wishing her the best as she tries to become a better wife. There are no pictures or illustrations, just lots of boring details about the mechanics of sex. Again, Sierra is welcome to it, but not exactly something to include in my will.

I tend to be a purger.  When something no longer serves its purpose, loses its appeal, or just becomes another item to store, I usually get rid of it. I am not one to wear jewelry of value, so I won't have much to pass on in that department. I have a wedding set in my jewelry box that my father gave to my mother. They divorced when I was ten. Much later, when I was married, my father gave it to me, and I wore it after I had lost so much weight that my own ring did not fit. I loved that the ring connected me to both of my parents.

When I was visiting everyone back home in Virginia about fifteen years ago, I happened to be talking to my stepdad while he was in the basement getting rid of things they no longer wanted to store. My kind of guy; he's a purger, too. Calvin pulled an old decrepit postal box off the shelf, opened it, and said, "We don't use these. Let's toss this box."  My mom saw the box, and took a quick inhale.  

"Those were my mom's. Maybe Denise wants them."  Within that ratty-looking box were the delicate glass ornaments that belonged to my grandmother from so many years ago.  I loved them.  

"I can seriously have these?"  They were mine for the asking.  How I cherish the one heirloom-quality collection I have. These ornaments were the first set my grandmother had as a new bride in 1934. They are made of the thinnest of glass, and hand-painted. They were run-of-the-mill ornaments back then, probably purchased at the local five and dime store, but they are so special now because of their antiquity.  Almost 80 years old...

For the first few Christmases, I hung them on my tree, but inevitably, one would break during the decorating; they are so fragile.  I continued to wrap them in the toilet paper that cushioned them in the old postal box, but a few years ago, I decided to put them in an egg carton to protect them a little better, or so I thought.

A couple of years ago, I purchased a tacky table-top tree on which to hang them.  That never set well with me; they needed a special place to go.  When I opened the carton this year, I discovered another broken ornament, so I left the box in the basement.

Several friends were talking about old family Christmas decorations, and I happened to mention Grandma's ornaments.  My friend Carol asked me to show them to her.  Since she lives in Massachusetts, the only way I could do that was to take pictures of them.

So last night, while I was waiting for Bridger to get home from playing in the pep band at the

My favorite one is broken. I can't bear to part with it.

basketball game, I decided to photograph the ornaments. I gingerly removed each of the little glass decorations from the egg carton, and hung them on the tree, taking pictures of each one, trying to catch the light just right to showcase the individuality of each ornament.I even photographed the broken one; it was one of my favorites, and I couldn't bear to throw it away.

I felt ashamed that I hadn't even brought the box of ornaments upstairs this year. These beautiful family heirlooms should be showcased every year for as long as they last. They do no good sitting in a crate in the basement closet, getting more fragile with each passing year. They are a connection to my dear grandmother, and just having them in view makes me happier.

So this morning, as I hang each ornament on my Christmas tree, I will walk the walk, and not just talk the talk.  I am going to use these beautiful gifts as they were meant to be; part of our family's heritage and Christmas traditions. They have their special place of honor, right where they belong:  on my Christmas tree. I am so glad I took the time to photograph them last night because I know they will not last forever. While they do, I promise to treasure them and include them in my holiday decorating.

My Grandpa's Honey Bee

November, the month of our birthdays, Grandma's and mine.

We were in downtown Lynchburg, Virginia, in some off-price women's retail shop, and I was bored out of my mind, as ten-year-old girls tend to be when shopping with adults for anything other than toys. I was out of earshot of my mom and grandma, while they were trying to find the perfect dress so Grandma could have her picture taken.  I pushed my way through a rack of clothes, feeling the fabric squish me tightly, and then I was in the middle of the circular rack, hidden by all of the blouses.  I hoped they'd be done soon.  Maybe we'd get to go out to eat. Finally, I pushed my way back out of my cozy hiding place, and wandered back to where they were holding up dresses under Grandma's chin.  I let out a long, slow exhale. "Are you almost done?"

"What do you think of this one, Denise?"  My Grandma held up the brightest, orange-est dress I'd ever seen.  My mouth dropped open, and my eyes went wide.

"Grandma!" I protested.  "You can't wear THAT!"

"Why-ever not?" her eyes sparkled, as she feigned shock.

"You don't wear...colors!  And that's a lot of colors!  You only wear black...and grey.  That's so...ORANGE!  And YELLOW!  And BRIGHT!"

"I think it's perfect," she said, returning the plainer dresses to the rack. And that was that.  I followed the two of them to the cash register, dumbfounded.  Seriously, Grandma only wore plain clothes. When my mom was young, she remembers that her mother had only two dresses.  They were simply designed, and plainly dark, one grey and one black is what I remember her telling me.

My grandpa had passed away just recently, and I think my mom encouraged Grandma to go shopping for a new dress, to get her hair done, and have her portrait taken to cheer her up.  It was like as soon as Grandpa was gone, my grandma blossomed into a woman who was even more of who she was.  She was more funny, more silly, more fun, and more happy.  Theirs had been a patriarchal family, for sure. Now she was the lone matriarch, and she ruled her dominion with frivolity and joy.

Grandma started to enjoy life.  She went out to eat.  She traveled.  She took an apartment near Washington, D.C. to work at the Mormon temple there, and she built a new home in Waynesboro to live closer to my mom and most of her grandchildren.  She bought herself a new car.  She still ate salads every single day, but there seemed to be more candy at her house.

The summer I came home to live with her was a wonderful summer for me.  I had just finished my second year of teaching in Richfield, and wanted to spend more time with my family.  Still feeling independent, I suppose by living with Grandma, and not my mom or dad, I felt like we'd be more like roommates.  She let me take the guest room with two twin beds.  The biggest shock of all?  She allowed my black Lab Gordon to stay in her backyard.  Gordon was still a puppy, and I knew he would not be allowed in the house. Grandma was a real trouper about letting the two of us spend the summer with her.

Early one morning, I'd taken my young pup for a run up Grandview Drive in Amherst.  On our way home, the Jennings' black lab followed us home.  Their dog Hoss was a big, black Lab with the identical safety orange collar my dog had.  After I chained Gordy up outside, I snuck Hoss inside the basement, and pulled him up the stairs.  Opening the door to the kitchen, I yelled, "Grandma! Come here! Quick! I think living in Virginia has been good for Gordon.  Look how big he has grown!" When that large, lumbering dog entered the room, I thought Grandma would faint.

"He's gotten so BIG!" she laughed nervously.

"Oh, Grandma, just kidding.  This isn't Gordon; it's the Jennings' dog.  Gordon's outside."  We both laughed.  She seemed so relieved.   Over the years, we both got a chuckle out of retelling our versions of the story.

Today is November 14, and I am overcome with emotion.  Beatrice Clara Jorgensen Engelhard would have been 103 today.  Happy Birthday, Grandma!  Oh, I miss you so much, especially during November.  I miss celebrating our birthdays together.  I miss your laughter.  I miss your candy bar stash in your bedroom.  I miss your soft hands.  I miss the sweet almond smell of Jergen's lotion.  I miss your loud whispers in church.  I miss you so much it makes my cheeks wet with tears.

My grandma was not a very typical grandma, but she was a great grandma.  She wasn't a cookie baker. She was always slender until she started taking Prednisone for her leukemia.  I just realized that orange is the color chosen to represent the leukemia survivors.  Grandma could rock orange better than anyone, couldn't she?  She was not a stay-at-home mom, like many women of her generation. She had a head for numbers, and was a contributing partner in her husband's businesses of owning "five and dime" stores back east.

Grandma wasn't much of a cook.  I got to thinking about that just recently, and asked my mom about her traditional German cookies, Pfeffernuse, pronounced, feffernussa. They were a mildly, sweet, kind of dry cookie, coated with a white glaze with a hint of anise flavor. If Grandma didn't bake, how did they end up having any cookie as a Christmas tradition?  My mom said they always had them during the holidays, but only because her mom would take her recipe to the baker and request he have them ready for her before Christmas. Smart lady!  Grandma made a killer fresh pork roast, and always served it with red cabbage and applesauce.  The only other things I know she could cook were potato pancakes (German-style) and Engelhard special (a one-pot dish consisting of hamburger, rice, peppers, and Velveeta cheese.)

Grandpa called her his Honey Bee. Beatrice drank coffee and smoked cigarettes from the time she was a teenager until she joined the Mormon church in the seventies.   Her family came from Germany; her maiden name was Jorgensen.

As a child, I always shared my birthday with my Grandma.  Beatrice Clara Jorgensen Engelhard was 50 years and four days older than I.  Her birthday is on the 14th and mine is on the 18th.  I loved sharing birthdays with Grandma.  Our favorite birthday cake was chocolate cake poked with holes and filled with red Jello and topped with a frosting made of chocolate pudding and Cool Whip.  Heaven! Grandma would have been 103 this year.  She has been gone too, too long, and today my sweet memories of her make me weep.  I'm not exactly sad, just so grateful for her influence in my life, and for her wonderful, happy way of viewing the world.  I hope it's a good day for you, Grandma. Remembering you with so much love...

Our last Christmas with Grandma Engelhard.
So grateful that my baby boy Dylan was there and
that she got to know him.