The other day when I was eating dinner and for some reason, I looked at the hutch that has our “special” plates along with lots of accumulated stuff. A half dozen mugs from Universal Studios, Wizarding World of Harry Potter. My souvenir Booze in a Blender glass from Margaritaville and a drumstick from a Bryan Adams concert. And an assortment of wine glasses from different occasions, some of which are gone because my two daughters have moved from our home.
I was young when my mom got the set of china that is in my hutch. I had to be less than twelve, I still vividly remember when my mom got the china. At that point she was so very happy, each dish she carefully washed treating it as if it were so precious. To my mom they were very precious, at that time having a set of china and crystal glasses meant that you achieved a certain status. In those years from elementary school to high school the china would be used just twice a year. Once at Thanksgiving and at Christmas. She would put her special tablecloth over our dining room table that seated twelve and carefully place each dish in its proper location. The silverware would be placed on a cloth napkin making the setting resemble someplace fancy instead of the blue-collar family we were. After dinner she was the only one to wash each dish. As everyone else watched television or exchanged the same tired stories that are shared each year my mom washed each dish by hand. Betty, that was my mom’s name, after all were cleaned and dried properly placed her china back in their hiding place for another year.
I never use the china, mostly because I wanted to keep it perfect, like it was when my mom was alive. Those dishes are not just dishes, they are my mom. As looked at the dishes ignoring the shrimp on my plate, I thought I should use them more. Betty wasn’t fancy, she wasn’t high society. She was warm and welcoming. She would help anyone, if she had two, she would give you one if were in need. She loved her kids fiercely. My brother Dave and I never felt as if we weren’t loved. I will be sixty-three in a few months, Betty died when I was twenty-two, and it may sound strange, but I can feel my mom’s love to this day. Sometimes I struggle to remember her voice but I can never forget all she gave, for dinner tonight I will open the hutch and use my mom’s china, I know she will smile.
Mike Settino 