I was a guest and sat next to the old man who was at the
head of the table. It was a Thanksgiving
meal, probably the last he would be on Earth to eat. His children sought to honor him and had
spared no expense to set a beautiful table.
The china was the best of Noritake and the silver glowed in the candles
gleam. The turkey was ready and all the
trimmings.
The old man was radiant in his joy yet looked around as if
something was not quite right. Being
closest to him, I leaned toward his place and asked “What is wrong?”
“My plate.” He said, “Where is my plate?”
“It’s here.” I said, “Here at your place.”
“No!” was his soft answer, “MY plate.”
I turned to his son setting next to me and repeated the
exchange I had with his father.
“Oh.” He replied as he got up from the table, “How could I
have forgotten?”
Bringing and old and chipped plate from the top shelf of the
china hutch he exchanged it for the bright new plate before his dad. “This is dad’s special plate.” He explained, “Ask
him to tell you about it.”
I did, and as the meal progressed this is the story the old
man shared with me.
When he was first married, one of their wedding gifts was a
set of china. It was pretty but
obviously not expensive. He always
thought that it was from the free dishware that was offered with the purchase
of a ticket to the Saturday night movie in the small town he grew up in. They used to do things like that back in the
old days and his wife’s parents were frugal re-gifters. Whatever, the dishes held a special place in
their marriage as the first meal his new bride prepared was served to him on
this very plate.
“See this chip on the edge, here by the rose.” His old
finger traced it with remembrance. “Katie
was washing the dishes when I crept up behind her and wrapped my arms around
her.” “She was so surprised, that the
dish slipped out of her hand and back into the soapy water.” “We did not discover the chip until we
finished the dishes much later.”
“And this chip over here.” He continued. “Someone told me that if you balance a china
plate on the tips of the fingers of one hand and strike the edge with a knife,
it will ring like a bell if it is good.”
“Never could get this plate to ring and broke off a piece trying.”
“The china got put away after we started having children and
only was used on Thanksgiving.” Over the
years the plate had become cracked and the rose faded and each of the
imperfections seemed to hold a special memory for him. I noticed as he traced a large irregular line
the scar from an obviously major break that had been repaired by gluing two
pieces together, that a tear was forming in the corner of his eye.
“Katie was setting the table for Thanksgiving dinner when
she had her heart attack.” “The plate
and her hit the floor together and they both broke.”
“There is no fixing the damage.” He spoke the words
softly. “There is only moving on with
life and letting the scars be gentle reminders of what we have survived and
what we have shared and what we have become.”
When I left his home that night I took with me a lesson that
has changed the way I perceive the damaged things around me. They all have their own story to tell. His were fond memories of love. Some have damage from anger and hate. Some from the normal wear and tear of life.
Listen to them and learn from them, without judgment.
