In this age of plastic
and stainless steel, I sometimes wonder what will become of the
bits and pieces of my possessions that need - horrors! - polishing.
Will my grandchildren, who will someday inherit them, shine them
up a couple of times and then, annoyed by the effort they demand,
take them to the nearest consignment store?
We're not talking fancy
stuff, here, just a few brass and silver bits and bobs that no
one else in the family wanted. But I am very attached to them,
and actually enjoy the process of polishing, even the brass which
demands real persistence and muscle.
When I first tried
to polish the brass candlesticks that came from my great grandmother's
family, I made little headway until my brother, recently discharged
from the army, clued me in on how to polish brass. "Stay in one
place, and rub it until the metal warms up," he said, "and when
the metal turns black, keep at it because that's when the tarnish
is really coming up. Then switch to a clean place on the cloth,
and voila! Perfect, shiny brass." I believe that this knowledge
represents the single positive result of his draft call-up, but
I'm grateful for it.
Those candlesticks
once stood at the foot of the stairs in Great Grandmother's Vermont
home. Their design was calculated to fit the human hand, and the
grooved lip at the top was meant to keep hot wax off the bearer
who picked up a candle and lit the way to bed as he or she climbed
the stairs. Great Grandmother was born in 1833, and the candlesticks
were old when she was first given the chore of cleaning and polishing
them at the age of 8. So when I polish them, I feel a deep sense
of connection to other women in my family who over the years have
held the candlesticks in their hands, scrubbing like crazy and
then smiling to see the bright results.
Somewhere along the
way I've picked up several other brass candlesticks from my husband's
family and other assorted donors, but Great Grandmother's are
always the ones I polish first.
I polish the brass
only a couple of times a year, if that, but the silver needs more
frequent attention. Since it's 'way easier to polish, I don't
really mind tending to it. On the counter by my bathroom sink,
I have a small collection of old perfume bottles and frames. My
favorite object is a tiny porcelain bottle, about an inch high.
It's pale yellow with a spray of flowers on a gold stem, and the
design continues down the side and onto the bottom. A hinged silver
cap opens to reveal a small glass stopper. The silver top is so
thin and fragile that it dents easily, and when I polish it, I
first stuff it with cotton so that I don't break through or make
more dents.
There is also a glass
bottle with a floral, silver overlay and "Julia" engraved on a
central leaf. It came to me from the estate of my mother's beloved
Aunt Julia, whom I met only once. She lived in New York State
and we lived in California, and during World War II, people didn't
travel across country much. Aunt Julia died at the age of 98,
reportedly still quite lucid and energetic, and her housekeeper
sent the little bottle to me. Now there is another Julia in the
family, my five-year-old granddaughter, and the bottle that bears
our name will someday be hers. I look forward to showing her how
to polish it.
Of course these days
it's nearly impossible to find a perfume that comes in a container
you can open in order to transfer it to one of these beautiful
little bottles. Everything seems to have sealed, dispenser tops.
But even if they don't serve their intended function, my little
bottles are bright, dainty accents, and since my life is often
neither bright nor dainty, I quite enjoy their presence.
There's another little
silver piece on my vanity tray, the lid of a small, cut-glass
jar that once belonged to my Aunt Martha. It, too, is fairly fragile,
a thin silver top with a floral bas relief. Frequent lifting and
replacing have split the edges in several places, but the little
top still holds pretty tightly. Aunt Martha was my grandmother's
widowed older sister who lived with her. Although they both moved
in with us when I was four, early-on in my life they lived about
400 miles away from us in Southern California. Sometimes my parents
used to make the long drive down the state to visit them, and
a visit always included a trip to the beach at Oceanside. I well
remember my two grandmothers and Aunt Martha, ensconced beneath
a huge beach umbrella, fully clothed and with large sun hats on,
watching eagle-eyed as my brother and I frolicked in the surf
and my parents swam far out beyond the breaking waves.
Aunt Martha always
carried a jar of Merle Norman Sun Cream, which she offered to
anyone who ventured near her. It smelled salty and tangy and was
the consistency of light cream cheese. The grownups politely refused
to put it on, but I was made to stand still while my nose and
ears and forehead were rubbed with it. By the time I had made
my little sand castles, my Merle Norman mask included a good bit
of scratchy sand, and I would head for the water to wash it off.
Aunt Martha usually managed to corral and re-cream me. She was
far ahead of her time in her belief that the sun was the enemy
of good skin.
The little cut glass
jar that I have kept all these years still holds a smear of Merle
Norman Sun Cream. Its scent is faint now, but a good sniff of
it brings me back to the beach at Oceanside, and the cry of gulls
and the swirl of foam at the edge of the sea, the crack of huge
waves farther out, and the reassuring sight of those three stalwarts
in their sensible lace-up shoes, silk stockings, cotton frocks
and sun hats, clustered under the shade of the old, striped beach
umbrella.
There's another little
silver piece on my tray, but this one isn't old. It's a small
silver apple, the gift from parents of a kindergartener I once
taught. He was a most unusual little boy, a child of wealth and
privilege who was even at five very much his own man. He was what
I used to call "a divergent thinker," though I abandoned the term
when I found out some parents didn't regard it as the compliment
it was meant to be. The little apple is engraved with my initials,
"JBS" and a mid-'80's date, and his initials, "PGH." If he ever
becomes president, as well he may, I'll have something to brag
about. Until then, it is the reminder of a most remarkable little
person.
My grandmother's clothes
brush with a chased silver handle; another of Aunt Martha's cut
glass, silver-topped jars; a silver-framed photo of my first born;
a funny little silver egg that hides a pincushion; a baby cup
which seems to collect all sorts of odds and ends; all are part
of the small collection I must polish every few weeks. They have,
by now, become old friends, reassuring in their presence and changelessness.
Aside from the intensely
personal items on my vanity, there are a few pieces of old family
silver that I also must polish. I must admit that I don't feel
quite as much connection to flatware and pitchers and teapots,
but I work to keep them gleaming just because they're there to
do. No doubt they'll be valued, down the line, by someone who
inherits or purchases them. By then it certainly won't matter
to me! In the meantime, I'll continue to haul out the good old
Wright's Silver Cream and a soft rag and feel accomplished as
I admire my handiwork. It's a pleasant reward for very little
effort.
