The Shiny Spoon

No one in my family knew when the shiny spoon arrived or where it came from. It was just there one day in the dishpan full of sudsy water in our kitchen sink. It was my job as the older sister to wash the dishes, and my brother John’s job to dry them. At the time, we were around ten and eight years old, respectively. Every night after supper, we stood side-by-side at the sink, washing, rinsing, drying, arguing, and fighting.

The moment I spotted it, I claimed the mysterious, shiny spoon as my very own. Since it was our natures to argue and fight about almost anything, John claimed the spoon as his own also. “I saw it before you did!” he insisted. I know I saw it first in that sink full of dishes. Now that I think about it, though, the possibility does exist that he saw it before I did, even ate with it, but didn’t recognize its value until I claimed it for my own. We humans are like that about many things—even about other humans.

"We [brothers and sisters] have been banded together under pack codes and tribal laws." Rose Macaulay

John and I did everything we could think of to sabotage each other's claims to the spoon. We would race to grab it first, and then blow on it, or lick it, to mark it with our germs so the other wouldn’t want to use it. Sometimes we actually came to blows and wound up slugging it out with our fists or wrestling on the kitchen floor. Of course, we did grow out of the shiny spoon wars, and even laughed and joked about it as we got older.

On a visit with Mom and Dad several years ago, I was helping out in the kitchen and I spotted the shiny spoon in the silverware drawer. In a rush of childhood images, I said to my parents, “Wouldn’t it be funny if I took the spoon and told John I’m holding it hostage? He and I can send it back and forth to each other on our birthdays or at Christmas—make a game of it.”

“Absolutely not!” Mom answered. “You’re not starting that B.S. again. I know how you are when you get something over your brother.”

At the time, I was approaching fifty years old and I was mortally wounded by her words. “Mom, we’re not kids anymore. That spoon is special to John and me. It'll be fun.”

She was immovable. “Forget it!”

Since no good ever came from arguing with my mom, I gave up without another word. The next time I went home to visit, I had a moment alone in the kitchen and I snatched the spoon and packed it in my bag. “Dad,” I confessed. “I’ve got the shiny spoon in my suitcase and I’m taking it back to Texas with me. Promise you won’t tell Mom.”

Immediately upon my return to Texas, I sent John a photo and humorous ransom note, joking that I now possessed our childhood treasure; John didn’t take the bait. Then last week he sent me this note:

Oh by the way Sis,

In regards to your card and joke you guys sent me January 17, 2007, concerning MY shiny spoon, don't think for one hot minute that I have forgotten MY shiny spoon.

Love, John

So, he’s finally ready to play!

Before getting into real game mode I decided to do a little research on the spoon. With the aid of a magnifying glass, I found the manufacturer on the back of the old spoon. I went online and began with Replacements, Ltd., a phenomenal source for china, silver, and other collectibles, old and new. After approximately six hours of fruitless searching, I stumbled upon a photo of a matching fork. I learned my shiny spoon doesn’t even have a pattern name; it’s called INS68—hardly a name for a spoon for which wars were waged and noses were bloodied.

When I told my husband and son that I was planning to write a piece about the spoon for my blog, I mentioned that I might send the spoon to John for Christmas. It immediately occurred to me, “Then I won’t have the spoon. What if he never sends it back? What if after he dies his wife doesn’t send it to me?” Suddenly, I was like Frodo, standing on the precipice, unable to throw the evil ring into the fire below. Maybe Mom was right about me.

I know, I know; the shiny spoon is probably a symbol of sibling rivalry and lost youth. As my three brothers and I get older and older, it’s not the spoon I don’t want to give up—it’s them. The shiny spoon keeps my childhood memories alive and I don’t want to lose them. As Thanksgiving approaches, I’m reminded of the many blessings of family and home, and I’m grateful to have my three brothers and their families. And this year I'm especially pleased that I’ve got the shiny spoon!

Donna

To the outside world, we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time. Clara Ortega

The Little Black Dress

As the year end holidays zoom toward us, seemingly picking up speed each day, I’m noticing a rapid increase in the number of features on fashion in the print media. One of my favorite magazines ran a piece titled: The Little Black Dress, and the article promised that a Little Black Dress “can take me anywhere.” (That would be after a quick detour to the fat farm.)

OK, I’m ready to go.

Take me back to 1974 when I was a much thinner version of myself. That was the year I married my handsome, dashing Marine Corps officer, Jim. That was also the year my little white wedding dress had to be downsized twice during the month before my wedding. I’d lost that much weight from nerves and smoking too many cigarettes while getting ready for the big day. I haven’t smoked in 20 years, and there’s no way I’d start that again. Nor would I consider a divorce in order to duplicate the nervous hysteria of another wedding—just to drop some tonnage. It would be nice if there really were a faster, easier, safe way to be slim again other than eating less and exercising more.

What I’m proposing is a new fashion essential, or staple, if you prefer—the Big Black Dress. Why not? If it feels better, call it the basic black dress, or just BBD for short. My idea of the BBD is guaranteed to camouflage any and all flaws.

So what would the BBD look like?

I don’t actually have a specific design in mind just yet, but taking it from the top, it would have to hide a wattle, batwings, a midriff bulge, flabby thighs, and knobby knees. I swear it’s only 20 pounds that need to be disguised, but unfortunately many of them have become permanently displaced. Surely there must be something in basic black out there for us leading edge baby boomers that doesn’t look like a choir robe with a turtleneck collar. Santa? Are you reading this?

Meanwhile, I’ll keep trying to eat a little less and exercise a little more for another six weeks. Yeah, right. Like that’s going to work in November and December.

Donna

My Oven Lives Again!

Yesterday was Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead, and my oven, which I now refer to as Lazarus, was resurrected. Thanks to my friend Melissa, I learned about an appliance parts store in Haltom City that carries old appliance parts, and we were able to do a heating element transplant. Melissa’s oven was built into her home in 1974 and she has the same problem I do with obsolete [appliance] dimensions—it’s either keep looking for replacement parts or remodel the kitchen. Thank you, Melissa!

There were several emails and a couple comments on the blog about replacement parts: wouldn’t it be nice if we could just plug in a replacement body part? Of course, we do have organ transplants and some body parts transplants, but it’s not yet quite as simple as dashing over to the next town with a model number and a credit card and getting things working right again in a few minutes.

This has been a good lesson for me, though. My oven, Lazarus, is like an old friend that I was about to throw out because it was starting to look a little dated. As a society, we’re so quick to throw out the old and replace it with shiny, streamlined, new things and people. It’s up to us to take care of ourselves and each other—and to recognize our value to society on the whole, and each other in particular. And as Melissa did, share those “been there, done that’s.” We’ve got to look out for one another!

Donna