What is an heirloom?
Webster’s defines an heirloom as, “Something of special value handed down from one generation to another.”
As I ponder the meaning of heirlooms, I turn to the battered antique trunk at the foot of my bed. Its domed top and shiny brass accents shimmer in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through my bedroom window.
My husband bought the trunk at his great aunt’s estate sale several years ago. It is a beautiful old trunk. Battered, but sturdy, it cradles heirlooms handed down through five generations.
I flip the clasps open and lift the lid, letting the smell of old leather, musty books, and time gone by waft around me. For a moment, my gaze lingers on my treasures, old and new, before I reach for the baby clothes stacked on top.
Underneath a soft baby blanket, I spot a baseball glove, its brittle leather over thirty years old. The glove brings back memories of a brother whose life was cut way to short. Memories of the time he threw a baseball straight up in the air because I had decided I couldn’t miss it if the ball fell on me. I missed—and got a busted nose for my effort. But it really wasn’t my brother’s fault. The whole thing had been my idea.
As I dig deeper, the keepsakes grow older. I pick up a hymnal, dated 1907, a relic inherited from my husband’s great-great aunt. Its care-worn pages are a testimony to the many times Aunt Mary Ann lifted her voice in song. I can just see a dozen or so stout country women dressed in their Sunday best, hats perched just so, sturdy shoes dusty from their trek to church, lifting their voices in song. The song in my head fades away as the hymnal is placed carefully to the side.
In the bottom, I find a quilt. Not just an ordinary quilt—a special quilt—a quilt hand-stitched by my mother’s mother. I’m not sure how old it is. My mother doesn’t know, and Mamaw wouldn’t be able to tell us if she were alive.
I do know that it is old, and worn, the fabric stiff and shiny in places, the binding threadbare, the lining torn. It isn’t beautiful. Its pieces aren’t mirror images of each other, intent on showing off some delicate pattern. It’s a hodgepodge of color, shapes, and sizes. Some pieces of fabric are long and narrow, brown. Others tan, triangular. I spot a few pieces of dull green here and there. But even now, it has a thick sturdiness that guarantees a cozy night’s sleep on a frigid winter night.
As my fingers glide across the surface of the quilt, an image of my mother as a little girl, snuggling under the quilt, flashes like a movie clip before my eyes. As quickly as it appears, it’s gone. I sigh and lean over the edge of the trunk once again.
The afternoon shadows deepen as I examine each and every precious item in the trunk. I marvel at the black velvet pillbox hat with grosgrain ribbon Mamaw wore to church back in the 1940’s. I touch the cool metal of Papaw’s pocket watch, the stiff softness of his brown felt hat. The label inside says Adam, Fifth Avenue Quality, long oval, and I wonder how many hats he tried on, how long he stood in the store, before he picked just the right hat, just the right style, to suit him.When I’m done, I carefully pack everything away, my trip down memory lane creating more and more memories, expanding, like sweet rolls set out to rise. I gaze out the window, enjoying a quiet afternoon reminiscing.
I have the memories to prove it.
And that’s what makes an heirloom special.
Do you have a special heirloom handed down from your parents or grandparents? We'd love to hear all about it!!!
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| The Road to Magnolia Glen |
CBA Bestselling author PAM HILLMAN was born and raised on a dairy farm in Mississippi and spent her teenage years perched on the seat of a tractor raking hay. In those days, her daddy couldn't afford two cab tractors with air conditioning and a radio, so Pam drove an Allis Chalmers 110. Even when her daddy asked her if she wanted to bale hay, she told him she didn't mind raking. Raking hay doesn't take much thought so Pam spent her time working on her tan and making up stories in her head. Now, that's the kind of life every girl should dream of. www.pamhillman.com
Purchase links for The Road to Magnolia Glen: http://www.pamhillman.
13 comments:
Pam,
This is such a touching article. I truly connect with it.
Pam, what a nice post, and so great to see you in another venue. I believe that antique and vintage objects, family heirlooms have almost a "soul" as we think about who handled them and why. Family objects are the best! The so-called "sacred objects," a family Bible or a special plate, can inform our writing. Right now I'm reading Heidi Chiavaroli's "Freedom's Ring" and the object is, you guessed it, a ring that finds its way from Revolutionary Boston to the time of the contemporary heroine. Love that kind of thing and hope to do more of it myself.
Kathy Bailey
Contracted Pelican author
That was so moving. The baseball glove especially. Thanks so much for sharing.
What a beautiful essay! Thank you for sharing your memories.
One summer afternoon, Mama Jewel, my mother's mother, insisted I take home a bowl of ripe peaches warm from the trees. It was a designer bowl, the middle one of a set. She staunchly refused to let me return it. After she died, Granddad asked if there was anything of hers I wanted. I asked for the other two bowls in the set, since I still had the one. The whole family searched, but the other two bowls were gone. Mama Jewel was a practical woman. She didn't revere things. In her memory I used that bowl all the time our four children were growing up. As adults they tell me their one greatest fear as children was that he or she might be the one to break Mama Jewel's bowl. It survived. Now in the China cabinet, it comes out on holidays and special occasions. I don't have many keepsakes, but Mama Jewel's bowl reminds me of her perpetual generosity, her abject regard for me, and her casual disdain for things. That bowl still recalls memories of an amazing woman I often try to emulate.
Jacqueline, I think we can all relate to treasures handed down from our grandparents or parents. Big or small, valuable or not, it doesn't matter. What matters is the memories attached, yes? :)
Kathy, Heidi is so talented! And, yes, I only mentioned a few of my little "treasures". I have an old sword with a broken handle that my grandfather received in a trade for some vegetables. He was a "truck farmer" (aka peddler).
I have always wondered about that sword. How old it is, who owned it, and is it Civil War era, etc. I would love to have it repaired, but don't know how to go about it.
Raquel, the baseball glove is special. I plan to give it to my nephew some day. :)
Thank you, Alina. So glad you stopped by.
Sharon, I love the story of Mama Jewel's bowl. So glad you have that special memory of her... the day she gave it to you and the memories it invokes.
I remember my grandfather giving me the sword because I asked for it. I was a teenager and he could have given it to one of the boys, but I wanted it, and I still have it. I have at least ONE thing from each of my grandparents, and that's what I have that he gave me. It wasn't HIS, but the two of us shared a "story" on how it came into his possession. Maybe some day I'll write a time-slip novel about it. :)
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I wish I had such a treasure chest! I have heirlooms scattered in boxes and drawers, some have been ruined over the years because they were stored so long. They are precious memories, though also take up space. You are right to value it, thanks for sharing the story.
Dove, that's just a smidgen of my "stuff". :) But you're right. I hate for some of it to be ruined. I had some glossy photos to get stuck together once. I almost cried.... well, I probably did! :(
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