Storytellers

My mother’s antique blue china, now in my possession, reminds me of feasts around our large mahogany dining room table when I was a child.  In those days my parents’ friends (called The Gang) ate dinner many times on those mis-matched blue plates that had been inherited from Mother’s family.

The members of The Gang had children who were the age of my two sisters - at least a decade older than me.  So when they visited our house (which was often since The Gang got together for each person’s birthday, holidays like Christmas and New Years, and after every high school basketball home game), I was the only kid in a room full of adults.  In the absence of real uncles and cousins, The Gang became my surrogate extended family.  These were special people to me; they treated me kindly and taught me a lot about what it meant to be a grown-up.  I also learned to love the blue plates by virtue of association with them.

There were four couples in The Gang besides my parents. I can picture Ross Tudor in my mind’s eye, the first in the group to pass away, and his wife, Ruth, who had sections of her nose cut away as cancer progressed.  Then there was Bob Arnett, the comical jolly fellow who kept the referee whistle in his pocket and sniffed hard (as if snuffing back a drippy nose) when trying not to laugh - the one who held me upside-down by my ankles - and his predictably pleasant, attractive wife, Lois.  And Herb Young, the small-of-stature man who had a voice that reminded me of a radio announcer, and his tiny wife Betty, who liked creamed chipped beef on toast.  The mysterious ones, from my little-girl perspective, were Gene and Glea Smith, alias Smitty and Mrs. Smith, who lived with an air of simple grandeur in a country cottage.

Whenever The Gang came to our house, Mother spread a lace tablecloth on the dining room and placed her blue china, and crystal water goblets, around the perimeter. Today when I set my small dining table for just two dinner guests with these same blue plates, I imagined the faces of those in The Gang, and remembered their kind attentions.  I could picture Bob and my dad belting out “Hail Purdue” with rich harmony in the middle of a meal to honor their alma mater.  I envisioned Ruth and my mother, fragile blue teacups in hand, chatting about recipes.  And I felt an old sense of belonging.

Today, with Mother’s china relics in hand, I stopped to think how quickly time passes.  How lives touch each other for a season, and then part.  How the plates remain to tell stories.