My Hamilton Beach hand-mixer is not long for this world. Then again, it is almost 24 years old. It has outlasted cars and hair dryers, a set of Revereware, several computers, bicycles, my first Cuisinart. And I’m a good enough cook, or at least dutiful enough and extravagant enough, to reward myself with one of those lovely KitchenAid mixers. So why do I cling to this Hamilton Beach, whose cord has a tenuous connection to the mixer at best, which rattles and hums ominously?
Simple: It was a college graduation gift from my Great-Aunt Madeline. So every time I use it, I think of Aunt Madeline. Whom I did not know as well as I would have liked. She lived in Augusta, Ga. Her name was inspired by the survivor list of the Titanic and it was given to my mother in turn and then to me, as a middle name.
If anything serves better than quotidian things and routines to keep the dead in our thoughts, I have yet to discover them. My grandmother, Mary Moore Mabry, older sister of Madeline, died in 1979, and because her childhood locket is so fragile, I seldom wear it. Instead, I am most apt to think of her when John Wayne Gacy is mentioned (his arrest was prominent on the radio as my family headed to Georgia for her final days); or when I pull out my mother’s single volume of Shakespeare, which I studied on that trip; or, finally, when I go to Steak & Shake, for my sister and I visited one close to the hospital.
I think of Bob Colesberry, however, whenever I order a hand-roll (for Bob preferred these to regular sushi rolls), ride Amtrak (long story) or go to certain restaurants. Since I eat sushi at least once a week, I am reminded of Bob at least that frequently.
In the midst of the unfathomable news of the tsunami, many people I knew felt slightly sheepish for focusing on the more ordinary death of Jerry Orbach. (“More ordinary” in the sense that it came from a diagnosed illness and was not, therefore, completely unexpected.) But this is how we process things; it’s why the media continues to tell individual stories about the tens of thousands killed. We can focus on the one mother who saw her child swept out to the sea, or the young English girl credited with saving an entire beach of people; we can’t begin to comprehend a death toll above 123,000, a number larger than the population of the city where I began my reporting career.
Anyway, I think I’ll keep my hand-mixer as long as I can.
I used to think the three things that would never change about me were the color of my eyes, my blonde hair, and the fact that I was Catholic. Well, the eyes are still brown and the hair is still light (thanks to Vicki the hairdresser and two hours every other month with enough foil on my head to pick up TV signals two states away). The Catholic thing, though – I would like to think that went by the wayside more than two decades ago, around the time when I processed that my brethren were ready to damn my soul to Hell for many things I thought were just jim dandy to be doing (no worries, they were garden variety, late 70s mortal sins).
I am OK with saying to people I am not Catholic, I believe I am a good person even though my form of Sunday worship is with the New York Times, and I like to think that I kind have the where do I go when I die thing kinda worked out (I will be the one pouring the martinis when the going gets hot). But the things, the *things* of my Catholic self – I can’t get rid of them: I keep a grasp on rosaries, and New Testaments, and most especially, the china Mary and Baby Jesus statue that my Nana and Grandpop gave me for my First Holy Communion in 1969.
That last one is understandable – after all, a keepsake from grandparents is not something to ditch very easily – but the fact that it has had pride of place in my living room for years… well, I have yet to work all of that out. It does make me think of these two people I love very much, but it also comforts me and connects me to something larger, something that quite frankly, I wish at some level I could be part of – although when I try to think through that scenario, I am always reminded that me being Catholic is a variation of the old Groucho Marx joke that Woody Allen uses at the end of Annie Hall: I wouldn’t want to belong to a club that didn’t want me as a member.
You know, maybe it’s not just the things I haven’t let go of from my Catholic years – there’s a sense of community and higher purpose that I think is still there in my genetic code. I liked that whole point of connection in being a practicing Catholic, but when I think about it, maybe all’s I have done is make the big “C” into a little “c”. I should look at that little ststue on the shelf in my living room to remind me of that.
Jerry Orbach’s death was unexpected for me. I was under the impression he had just switched shows. The death of favorite actors who have been a part of your life is more “knowable” than that of thousands of people from the tsunami. It is unfathomable, the annihilation of entire villages for miles and miles and miles.
Keeping treasures from family and friends is one way we all can keep some continuity in our lives. I still have an Ao Dai my mother wore in Taipei in 1957 and which I have no chance of getting on my frame. I think of her, Taipei, the Taipei American School, and many friends from that time who I still hold dear and sometimes see still. Remembering is good for the soul.
I tend to be a pack-rat by nature. I have gotten better about this, however, in regard to things that have “sentimental value”.
As child I was only responsible for helping box up my room when we moved. My mom rarely made me get rid of anything because she felt her parents had thrown out too many things from her own childhood. While I was in the military, professional movers handled everything. After having to do a couple moves on my own or with limited help, I began to feel less attached to some possessions if I was the one who had to pack, load, haul, and store them!
When I joined the military and later went to college a lot of my stuff ended up in my parents’ garage and shed (my sister’s too when she did the military/college thing). A couple years ago, when my parents once again couldn’t fit a car in the garage even after investing in a second shed, we decided to go through all of the boxes and weed things out(or at least organize better
). I was dreading this chore, but had a surprisingly good time. It was neat to see old toys, art work my parents had kept, 80′s posters, crumbling corsages from highschool proms, etc. I think my mom and I spent more time holding things up and saying “Look at this! I remember when….” than anything else.
There are things I will never get rid of, such as my favorite stuffed animal “Bunny” from childhood, porcelain fairies my mom made, or favorite books. Memories are very much tied to things we can see and touch, listen to, smell and taste. I think the emotional reaction this evokes has a lot to do with it. I also suspect that deep down inside all of us is some fear that if we don’t keep certain things we will forget our memories of the past and the people in it.
Hm. Steak ‘n Shake. Now that’s a memory. My dad and I going there on the way home from the airport my first trip back from grad school. Orange freezes in the summer night in St. Louis, before I knew of Ted Drewes. Telling a waitress that didn’t really care that yes, I knew exactly what I wanted to order because I live in a barbaric place where there is no Steak ‘n Shake and I have been dreaming of ordering this double steakburger with cheese, pickles, ketchup, and light mustard on toast since the last time I drove west on I-70.
Laura, I’m going to Missouri next weekend. Want me to bring back some chili?