Old Spoons- stories written in silver

I have mentioned before that my Moma not only collects, but sells silver and silverplate. My Grandma Tommy, Moma, and I have all shared a passionate affection for cutlery sets, napkin rings, serving pieces; all manner of items for the table (silver, china, and glassware). It is always exciting when Moma gets in a box of silver to sell. She has always said the whole reason she goes to the trouble of selling is so that she can pick out and keep the pieces she loves. Then she sells the rest to make up for what she kept. I find it a wonderful strategy and often pick up a random piece here and there and muse, "I know a girl that would love to have something like this in her Christmas stocking..." Yes, I have to say it's a beautiful arrangement!

 I especially love monograms. There are people who refuse to buy them because they don't want something marked with another person's initials. I love to think what the names might have been. And Moma and I often pick out gifts to suit someone's name. My oldest son, Devin Doss, has an entire set of spoons marked with beautifully scrolling D's. Seth and William Cole also have pieces with "their" letters.

But while there are the times when we open a box and there is an immediate gasp of stunned appreciation for some exquisite piece that catches our eye, there are also the fine pieces that will not be kept. Then the more common ones, and finally, the poor, forlorn ones. These are the ones that have been used so well and so long that the plating is gone. Or the handle bent. Or the tips worn down. Or all three. And these go into a box where everything sells for a dollar. Don't you love dollar boxes?! Moma's are always full of treasures. But recently I had to rescue a whole bunch of lovelies.

 They were going into the dollar box and it just hurt my heart. They have such quiet integrity. It's like when the Hobby Horse tells the Velveteen Rabbit that when you become real it is because someone loves you so hard that your nose falls off and you become very shabby. But those truly loved things have a inner glow of beauty that some people can still see. With these spoons it has to do with a stoic utilitarianism. I imagine the hand of the woman who held them, wiping sweat from her brow, keeping her skirt from the fire. These items were used by a woman stirring a soup to heal a child's fever, a stew to heat the bellies of boys chopping wood, a sauce to pour over the chicken on a Sunday after church while she looked around the table at all the faces she loved so much. And this went on day by day, year by year, until the spoon took on the demeanor of the woman who wielded it. You can even tell by the wear whether she was right or left handed.

How could these spoons go into a dollar box? They could have ended up in a dump or burn-pile generations ago, but here they are, some nearly 150 years old, their dignity worn and tarnished, but intact. These grand ladies know far more than I about the affairs of the kitchen, even the affairs of the heart, from the expanse of time that they have existed. What a shame it would be to not cherish them now.

 And so they sit, ready to be called into service. Ready for a warm hand to put them to use again, ready to nourish a hungry world, one dish at a time.