On A Walk Down Memory Lane

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.