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

Commencement

Robert graduated from college this past weekend. Jim and I, along with Robert’s godmother, Gerry, attended the commencement ceremonies at the University of Texas down in Austin. What a weekend! Robert’s college had its ceremony Friday afternoon at the enormous Frank Erwin Center on the UT campus. Afterward we had a cookout at his apartment complex with several of his Grapevine friends who have been together since elementary school. Saturday night was the campus-wide ceremony at the foot of the famous UT tower, with all the colleges represented. The tower was lit for Robert one last time, with the year ’09. Immediately afterward the school put on a spectacular fire works show for the grads and their families.

There were several moments when I had to fight back a few tears, and I had anticipated I would cry more than I did. There were times when I had a lump in my throat and tears threatened just behind my eyes. Of course I was as proud as a parent can be, but then Robert has always made Jim and me proud and joyful parents. The oddest sensation I experienced was sadness at the realization of the end of all our little traditions and habits we’ve established during Robert’s four years in Austin.

We’ve stayed at the same hotels, eaten at the same restaurants, and shopped at the same stores for four years. I suppose the familiarity of those habits helped to keep that old empty nest thing in check. We drove down for parents’ weekends (only the first two, I swear), Mother’s Days, and award ceremonies. Robert even volunteered us to act as judges at the business fair in which he participated. We’ve become rabid Longhorn football fans, even turning our backs on our beloved Michigan and Illinois teams.

While I won’t miss the college tuition bills and the dorm and apartment expenses, I will miss the rituals and traditions we built. The weekend was also a commencement for Jim and me. The folks at Webster say that commence means “to have or make a beginning; to begin to be or act as;” thus, commencement is “the act or time of beginning.” There are plenty of old saws about the irony of calling the end of school by the term for “the beginning,” so I won’t go on about that. I suppose it must be time for me to “begin to be or act as” the parent of an independent, grown-up young man. Ouch. Now I’ve got that lump in my throat and those tears threatening again.

Donna