Broken China--Mending Hearts

At holidays, and special birthdays we sometimes used to get to eat on my grandmother's Haviland china. It was simple, elegant, white with a delicate pink ramble of roses.

This china came originally from Limoges, France, and somehow found its way to Hudsonville, Illinois. I'm going to guess that it was a wedding gift to my great grandparents--but it's only a guess. Weaving a history based on that guess,  I'm going to imagine that the china traveled, carefully packed, by train to Montana before my grandmother, Nanny, was born. Shortly after great grandmother had my Uncle Gock, a "babe in arms," according to my grandmother, her husband disappeared. It was the depression of the 1890's and he didn't have a job. He took off, perhaps riding the rails. Eventually he found work and sent for (or was located by?) my great grandmother, and "What could she do?" asks Nanny. "She had to pack up everything and take that baby out West to meet him."

Since Nanny was born in 1902 in Anaconda, Montana, I assume that's where he was. Perhaps he  had found work as a postman--the work he did when Nanny was a child. I'm guessing, again, that the china found its way to Anaconda, where it somehow survived a tornado. (I have fuzzy memories of that story--snow coming into the house from the broken roof, families on the street walking with all they had left on a sled trailing behind....)

At some point the china made its way back eastward, bit by bit. First to Lincoln, Nebraska, then Omaha, where my mother was born, and finally settled back in Champaign, Illinois when my mother was six months old.

It was a complete set of 12 place settings with all the trimmings. A gravy boat, a big platter, a china bell to call us to dinner, tiny dishes for salt or maybe little candies. One plate had a tiny chip, but the set was otherwise perfect. "The Haviland" became kind of mythic for us. Only pulled out on occassions worthy of "Bobby's Torte" or "Nanny's Purple Eggs." Washing "The Haviland" was a huge responsibility and honor, and I like to think that I didn't even try to get out of it (though my memories may be somewhat faded).

Now here's a little personal background: I have sometimes an unhealthy relationship with stuff. Just overly attached to objects with sentimental meanings.  After my Nanny died, my mom had 5 sets of china, "The Haviland" plus various other sets or parts of sets from her own wedding, Nanny's wedding, and her other grandmother. And here's the sad part of the story: My mother has four daughters. Why, I would lament, is she hoarding all that china? It seemed perfectly reasonably to me that she would keep one set and give us each a set of our own. It's not that I necessarily thought she should give me "The Haviland," but I guess I did think we should each get some kind of china from one of my grandmothers. I have to confess there were times when I was a little angry about it.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago: I got a call from my sister, who was very clearly agitated. She told me that everyone is ok, but something very bad happened--then proceeded to cry.

The birthdays were coming up. Mom, my brother, and I all have birthdays on the January/February cusp. I had called my mom earlier that day to see about bringing her a birthday cake. Robby was in town and wanted to have an Aquarian Birthday party. We had made plans for 2:00 the following day.

At some point after that, Betsy went over to help mom sort out her things. She will be moving to Betsy's mother-in-law cottage in about 6 months, so is going through things to give away and sell. Mom had decided to give us each a set of china, and the two of them spent some time lovingly unwrapping each piece, reminiscing, and talking about my grandmother. They had decided that I was to have "The Haviland" because I was the oldest, very close to Nanny, and the only one who possessed even a sliver of memory of my great grandmother, my mother's "Nanny." Betsy and Mom were in the basement, and had 4 sets unwrapped and on the
table.

My sister described what happened in the next moments when suddenly, the center leaf of the table gave way and in the next instant, my mother, who was trying to reach out to stop the inevitable, was weeping in a heap of broken china. My sister, trying to understand what had just happened (was mom having a heart attack? was she cut...?) rushed from the other side of the room. As she described it, most pieces were simply shattered, with only a few small dishes
somehow falling on the heap chipped, but whole.

Betsy eventually got Bob to bring mom upstairs and try to calm her down. She went home to get Alexsis to help clean up the shards. There she called me and told me the story. I felt a little sad, but was able to get a grip pretty immediately; something told me all of our crying wasn't going to bring back my grandmother's china. I felt the tears coming, but firmly turned to trying to comfort Betsy. I offered to come in and help, but Betsy said not to; she would go back to mom's and
call me again.

Next, she called me back and put my mother on the phone, who was still inconsolable. I got a bit more of the story, and the realization that everybody else's set was saved was a big relief. They had just taken everyone else's set off the table, and mine remained.

Also, I discovered on talking to my mother, that although much of the china was in splinters, more pieces were saved than I thought: she said 5 dinner plates and 5 soup bowls, as well as the gravy boat and a few mismatched serving pieces (the lid of the oval serving dish, but the bottom of the round one)... So again, the 3 or so saucers I thought were left, grew to something we could still serve a meal on...another big relief.

Next came the most bittersweet part of the story: My mom is still sobbing, and I'm trying to hold back the tears from just hearing her apologies over and over...trying to reassure her, and little by little discovering more good news. My heart is suddenly bouyant on the the news that mine was the only one broken. I try to get her focus on what is left instead of what is lost, and frankly, I'm starting to worry about the toll on her health all this crying will take. But she is still crying, telling me that it had been a complete set of 12 place settings. And she gives me this gift: "I wanted you to have that one because it was the best."

Now, it's not that I think my mom loves me any more or less than my sisters or brother, but sometimes I think we both lose track of what is important. In fact, both of us have expressed anger over material things that we don't want to give up. If I am too attached to things sometimes, I come by it honestly. On the other hand, what I sometimes forget is that when I am generous and openhearted, I come by that honestly, too. To hear that my mom planned to give me "The Haviland" was amazing.

I heard later that Betsy told mom to just give me her set--the one my Nanny got for her wedding--but mom said, "No, I wanted Mary to have 'The Haviland.'" In fact, each of my sisters, when they heard the story, responded by offering me their sets. Betsy, it seems, was on the internet, searching for replacement pieces. I guess we can all be openhearted.
 
Later, telling the story to my friend, Nancy, I was still a little stunned. She said she was amazed that I wasn't more upset, and I thought about it and realized that it was pretty surprising, given my attachment to things, and my sometimes unrestrained sense of entitlement.

Still later, in the middle of the night, I woke up with this realization: I'm not more upset about it because I didn't need a set of china; I only needed to hear that my mom wanted to give it to me.

The next day was our birthday party, and it was a bit like the world opening up after a storm, or realizing after a big drama that, after all, life goes on. We were festive, even though some tears were still close to the surface--because really, it wasn't about the broken china. Another tenuous  link was lost connecting us to precious loved ones, valuable history. We ate carrot cake and opened presents. Betsy had made twin presents for mom and for me--wooden boxes with a mosaic of broken china on the lid, a round mirror inside. She had painted the sides with the rose pattern on the china.


I am grateful to my mom for many gifts, both spiritual and physical, including one perfect set of Haviland China that will remain whole in both of our hearts. Meanwhile, the remnants are displayed on my shelf--ready for whenever four friends come over for soup.