Bird by bird. I repeated the mantra I’d lifted from the title of a beloved Anne Lamott book, then climbed onto a stool. On a mission to purge, I knew a silver platter lay nestled in the far reaches of the cabinet above the refrigerator. But I couldn’t remember what else was up there.
Atop the platter was a silver-rimmed glass bowl. Wedding gifts, both were untouched since we’d moved into this house thirty-one years ago. The final, forgotten item—a silver bowl, monogramed with my mother’s maiden name initials—made my heart skitter. I couldn’t recall when my mom had gifted it to me.
I set aside the platter and glass bowl to donate to Secret Seconds, my favorite thrift store. Then I studied my mom’s bowl. Its discoloration made me certain I’d tucked it away with plans to clean it one day.
That day had finally arrived.
The bowl’s heavy tarnish led me to wonder if it was sterling silver. Internet sleuthing schooled me otherwise: the letters EPNS on the back of the bowl meant it was silver plated. The internet provided cleaning recipes too. The first recipe removed some of the tarnish. More so though, its combination of salt, baking soda, aluminum foil, and boiling water evoked memories of the rotten-egg odors of Yellowstone National Park. A follow-up remedy of baking soda paste restored more of the silver’s luster.
The bowl is now displayed in our dining room which, until we cleaned out the family home in 2018, had only a photo gallery and dining set.
I wish I had unearthed Mom’s bowl in 2019 during her final visit to Missoula. Her memory was slipping, but I believe she could have told me the Who When Why behind the bowl, even if she couldn’t remember when she had given it to me. I’m sure she relayed those details when she gave me the bowl.
Years ago, I remember her telling me that her aunts and uncles gave her sterling silverware for birthdays and Christmases when she was a teen and young adult. She said, “Whenever I opened another piece of silverware I wanted to throw up. I wished I’d gotten a pair of clam diggers instead.”
That story made me laugh.
Since the bowl sports my mom’s maiden name initials, I’m sure she received it sometime before 1952. That year was significant for three reasons. In the order of their occurrence: my mother got engaged; she graduated from Carroll College with a nursing degree; and she turned twenty-one.
At some point in the ensuing years, Mom occasionally noted gift giver’s names and dates on the backs or bottoms of gifts. Perhaps she gleaned that habit after taping her name on the bottoms of numerous dessert and casserole dishes that she dropped off for potlucks or to feed bereaved families. In her 80s, she had said, “If there’s anything you want, write your name and tape it on there so I’ll remember.”
I hadn’t written my name anywhere before we gathered at 5 Wood Court in 2018. But I treasure the keepsakes that memorialize Mom’s handwriting. The dates are precious too. 1969. 1979. 2003.
Some gifts, journeying full circle, made their way back to me.
