Family Heirloom
Submitted by: Cricket’s Hearth
I find myself watching less and less of television each year. I think the invasion of the “reality television” was the turning point for this TV couch potato. I do enjoy a good movie and of course the do-it-yourself home improvement and landscaping shows. I am also fascinated by the Antique Road Show. Having collected a few antiques over the years, bargain pieces found at garage sales, flea markets and auctions, I so love to watch someone be surprised to learn that an item purchased for a few dollars many years ago because it caught their eye is now worth thousands. My absolute favorite is when someone brings a family heirloom passed down through the generations “just to see what it is worth.” I know it sounds silly, but I find myself waiting, and hoping, to hear the magical words after being informed of a very high value, “That’s nice, but I wouldn’t sell this for any amount of money. There is too much sentimental value that money can’t buy.” I believe placing sentimental value above monetary value is as real as it gets.
I have one such sentimental item that has been in our family for over 100 years but was only recently discovered. It had been packed away for more than thirty years, long ago forgotten, and probably not worth more than a twenty-dollar bill today. But to me, it is priceless. It is my grandmother’s washboard.
Like most farm women of my grandmother’s day, Gramma Lily was a stranger to modern conveniences. She bore thirteen children over a period of twelve years – all single births. All food served at the family table was raised on the farm and cooked on a wood-burning stove. My father remembers her making six loaves of bread every morning, seven days a week. She made her own butter and her own noodles. Gramma Lily canned all her fruit, vegetables and most of their meat. They did have a smokehouse, which was primarily used for the hams, venison and groundhogs. A cellar would be stocked with potatoes and apples. She made soap from wood ashes and fat left over from butchering hogs and cattle. This soap was used for bathing in a tub in the kitchen, with each sibling taking their turn before the water got too cold or too dirty. Of course the water had to be carried in from the well and heated on the stove, after the wood had been cut to build the fire to heat the water. When I think of everything my grandmother had to do to just feed and bath her family, and granted child labor was definitely in great supply and readily utilized, it just boggles my mind that in the midst of all this, she also had laundry day using a single washboard and a tub for a family of fifteen.
For a brief time after making its discovery, I had Gramma Lilly’s washboard displayed on the wall above my washer and dryer. The washboard was actually a hand-me-down from her mother. It clearly shows the wear from all the blue jeans, coveralls and flannel shirts being scrubbed clean with the lye soap she made. I have a very vivid memory of helping gramma scrub grampa’s coveralls on that washboard, then labor over wringing the water out by hand – first twisting them one way and then the other while I held one end – and then hang them on the clothesline to dry. I remember how red her hands were that day and how wrinkled they were years later. I am sure the two were related.
I now have gramma’s washboard hidden away. I have two sisters who seem to have forgotten the phrase finder’s keepers. To be honest, if I truly believed either of them had more of a sentimental value of the washboard than I do, I would gladly give it to them. But I have seen both of them sell, at garage sales no less, pieces that “they absolutely had to have for sentimental reasons” after the passing of various members of our family. For me, the memory value of those pieces far outweighed any monetary value they received and quickly spent.
Gramma Lilly’s washboard will forever be mine. I believe memories are the reality of a time gone by, and to sell a memory is like selling a piece of your soul.
Submitted by: Kim at Sunflower Seeds
A family heirloom that always brings a smile to my face is a five-foot long chain made entirely of chewing gum wrappers. As a child, I was very proud of that chain. I made it myself, building it link by link for several summers in a row.
I spent almost every summer with my grandparents, who owned a golf course. Decades before I came along, my entrepeneuring grandfather had purchased a monstrous lot of undeveloped property, and then carved a golf course into it. He put a house right in the center, for he and my grandmother to live in. Every morning, my grandmother would walk out of her kitchen and into a clubhouse where she would wait on customers. The clubhouse was surrounded by a huge cement patio and wooden picnic benches. These benches are where I sat and dreamed many of my childhood dreams. I drew pictures, and I read countless books.
I also enjoyed the perk of eating snacks from the clubhouse. There were candy bars, bags of peanuts, frozen treats, cans of soda, and of course, packs of chewing gum. My mother and grandmother taught me how to take the wrapper from one piece of gum and fold it carefully into two tiny links. These links, once hooked together, were very difficult to pull apart. The chain they created seemed indestructible. It was also fun to see how the chain would look when I used different types of gum wrappers. The bright yellow Juicy Fruit wrappers were my favorite to collect.
In college, the colorful chain was draped over my vanity mirror, a colorful reminder of the lazy days of summer. Today, it is curled up in a keepsake box beneath my bed. Someday, when my children are older, I’ll uncurl it for them. I’ll buy them a pack of Juicy Fruit and teach them how to make the tiny links. They may think it’s silly, and I guess it is. Still, it will bring a smile to my face and remind me of all my summers on that clubhouse patio.
Submitted by:Cheryl at Red Pens and Diapers
Don’t think I’m trying to shove you into the grave or anything… but I wouldn’t mind if you earmarked Grandma’s treadle sewing machine for me.”
“You know it still works, right?”
“Yep. I have many fond childhood memories of rocking the treadle back and forth and feeling the stiff mechanism loosen up. I would like to have it. I promise I’ll take care of it.”
“Hmmm.”This nonchalant exchange occurred while I was driving my mother’s car back to my house. I think we were talking about all of the items in her basement that are currently undergoing a drastic reorganization courtesy of Sandy, the housekeeper lady extraordinaire.
Inwardly, I feel conflicted. My mom is not possibly old enough for me to start talking about stuff like this. She’s going to be around for at least 30 more years, right? After all, I’m just a baby myself, HER baby.
I wonder when it happened, this switch from “shopping” in her basement for items to furnish my apartments to carefully selecting things that I want to have around me to fill me with joy and memories.
“I remember that it was my job as a kid to dust all the rungs on the dining room table and chairs. It would take me an hour to get in all those crevices.”
“They certainly made furniture to last, didn’t they? We bought that set in 1975. Dad picked it out. We haven’t bought a new set because this one is still in good shape.”
Sure, there are only 4 or 5 chairs left. I remember clamping the rungs back into place long enough for the carpenter’s glue to do its job. The kind of furniture you mend, just like the thick socks with the holes in the toe area. I had my mom teach me how to darn socks this last week just so I wouldn’t have to waste good socks.
“The table top is good for homemade play-doh, that’s for sure.”
It is. The table is made of solid wood, but the top has a tough veneer that resists scratches. And it has leaves. The table can go from a smallish circle to a long oval that has fit eight of us around it. Sure, our elbows would hit each other, but we could fit. We’d bring in the kitchen stool and the piano bench to provide extra seating. Later, we’d spin the computer chair around to join the eclectic mix. Now, we have to set up two card tables in the living room and clear off the breakfast bar as well.”
The set isn’t beautiful. My mom never felt it was her ideal table and chairs. I remember her telling me that Dad picked it out on his own and surprised her with it. All these years, she’s lived with it even though she didn’t really love it.
And now I covet this ramshackle dining room table and chairs. I want to make homemade play-doh for my children and let them use the rolling pin on the soft green dough, give them plastic knives and forks to trace out designs in the minty-smelling putty.
“We can go to the furniture store next time you are in town and pick out a new set for you. You’ll finally have the set you’ve always wanted. A long oval on a pedestal base, right? What kind of chairs would you like? Country traditional with stenciled carvings? Shaker simplicity?”
“I don’t know. I think I’d rather let you pick them out. My kids seem to know what I like better than I do. I trust your judgment.”
How did this happen? Is this conversation significant? Why do I feel a shifting, a tremble of an earthquake?
Last night we watched Antiques Roadshow. I’m always startled by the beauty of some of the antiques and special finds that people bring in for appraisal. Family heirlooms, some, others, just a dirty treasure they picked up at a flea market. I’ll never haul the dining room table to an arena and lovingly present it to the Keno brothers for appraisal.
“It’s been in my family for generations. We used to drape sheets over it to make tents. I never really thought it would be worth anything.”
“Well, you might be surprised to hear that this ’70s relic is worth ten thousand dollars now.”
“It’s priceless to my family. We’ll never sell it.”
******
I still have that blankie. Anna cuddles in it.
The same chair in the picture above. My mom has it in her basement. She reads her devotions there in the same rocking chair where she nursed her babies.
The other “bow-bow chair.” I think my sister claimed it. The little one in the picture is me after I got into my sister’s Barbie lipstick.
Many of those ornaments survived. I think I covet those as well.
