Six Things

I recently read a statement that talked about how materialistic our world has become, which is nothing new. However, it posed an interesting question: if you could keep only six items and would have to discard or give away the rest, what would those six items be? Granted, the items can’t be people, though pets are okay. The items can be big or small. So, I pose the question to you – what would your six items be? Here are mine in no particular order or priority:

My mother’s doll. She is life-size, about the same height as a toddler, with an angelic bisque face, blue glass eyes, and a human hair wig; her arms and legs move. My grandparents gave her to my mother when she was around seven years old, approximately 1930. I haven’t been able to ascertain her exact age but have found similar dolls made by the same German doll manufacturer between 1910 and 1920. She’s an antique in pristine condition because my mother took impeccable care of her. When I inherited her, I took on the responsibility of caring for her the way my mother did. She is irreplaceable.

I am a quilter. And while I don’t absolutely have to own a sewing machine to make my quilts, it sure does come in handy and makes the process faster. The very first quilt I made I sewed entirely by hand, from cutting all the pieces with scissors to hand sewing them together, to the final quilting, because I didn’t own a machine. I was making it for my sister’s firstborn. Though I started with what I thought was plenty of time to spare, he was six months old by the time I finished, and I worked on it every day! After that, my mother gave me her machine that had not been used in 24 years. While I now own a 1951 Singer Featherweight named after my great-great-grandmother Fluretta, and a spiffy Juki that can do all sorts of nifty things, if I had to choose only one, it would be Fluretta. 

My house. Yes, my house. It’s not the fanciest house in town nor is it new, and that’s one of the many things I like about it. I like older houses not just because they’re sturdy and well-built; they hold the collective spirits of those who lived in them before me. Older houses have soul. I’m not talking about ghosts, though I have lived in a house with a ghost. That one had a ghost of a teenage girl who pulled shenanigans like bending keys and opening locked sashed windows, allowing wind and debris from nearby trees to blow into rooms. I guess she thought it was funny; I didn’t. She could be really annoying. I had to yell at her a few times and she would stop for a bit, then return to her prankish ways. I supposed she was bored. The house I live in now has had many owners going back 70 years to when it was built. I felt their presence as soon as we moved in. Nothing like the teenage girl, thank goodness. The previous owners of this house were happy here, that much is apparent. I suppose what I love most about an old home is that it has been lived in, and every part of the house exudes a part of the people before me. Strange as this sounds, it’s as though the previous folks left a soul mark on the house. It’s a place that was loved and is what gives an old house its heart and character, something missing in new homes. 

Now I’m going to cheat a bit – it’s not one thing but a grouping of photos I would never want to be without. We have a long hallway that we covered in framed family photos, many going back to the 19th century and others as recently as the early 21st century. Each time I walk down the hallway, I glance at the photos, and often stop and look at my parents smiling into the camera on their 1947 wedding day, or my Nana at age 20 shyly looking into the camera donning a flapper dress and bob hairstyle, a secretive smile crossing her lips, or my great-grandfather standing stoic in his military uniform. These are my people. I wouldn’t want to be without them.   

And finally, my last two: my darling miniature schnauzer/yorkie dog named Mensch and my sleek black cat named Simcha. They are my little loves and while I could probably live without them, I wouldn’t want to. They make me smile, and laugh, and make me feel loved beyond the stars. Some days I question what I did to deserve these little beings. 

 Old-fashioned Texas Wisdom 

“You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar,” Nana said in her slow Texas drawl, the word ‘honey’ stretched out long and sweet. At the time, I was little, and I don’t think I had any idea what she was talking about, but I knew that if my Nana said it, first, it was true, and second, I better do it. I adored her. 

Nana, my maternal grandmother, born and raised in Cleburne, was Texan to the core. Born in the late 19th century, she was raised in a strict household of a dozen children who were expected to do their household chores whatever their age, obey, speak only when spoken to, and not talk back. Absolutely no talking back. As long as everyone behaved, life was good in the crowded household. All the children, including Nana, the youngest, were instilled with Texas wisdom and truisms that she passed down to my mother and to me. 

Though I was raised in a different south, Southern California, I grew up listening to Texas vernacular. And lots and lots of advice. It was common to hear about something not being worth a "hill of beans." I knew when trouble was brewing because I heard that someone was "blowin’ up a storm."  I knew that when Nana said, “if I had my druthers,” she meant she’d really prefer to be doing something else or doing it differently.

During my teen years, I often heard “hold your horses,” particularly when Mama or Nana became exasperated with me. I knew they meant to stop whatever it was I was doing or thinking or saying. 

Even though I was being raised in laid-back San Diego, and by then Nana lived up the road in Los Angeles, she still expected me to behave like a Texas young lady and if it took every ounce of her collective Texas will, she was going to make sure I towed the line.  

Though my grandfather gave her a good life, and she never wanted for anything, she had standards for her daughter and her granddaughters. Mama was raised in Texas, where Nana tried to instill principles in a headstrong daughter determined to make her own way. She wasn’t always successful, which is why she was determined to mold me into a proper Texas young lady at as early an age as she could. However, she was up against a societal force, the 1960s, where any and everything was up for change. If I said that her ways were old-fashioned, and not how we were doing things today, Nana would flutter her hand, as though she were batting away an annoying fly. 

“Manners never go out of style,” she would respond, a firm tone to her voice.

While I heard about manners a lot, it was that phrase about flies and honey and vinegar that kept seeping into conversations. When I was around five, I asked what she meant. Nana explained that I would get a lot further if I was nice than if I misbehaved. And didn’t talk back, definitely, no talking back, just like in the house where she was raised. 

I thought I was an easy-going kid who rarely needed disciplining, but in retrospect, I now realize that I must not have been as perfect as I thought because I heard that phrase a lot. I’ll tell you one thing; it made an impact. It was simple advice on how to get along in this life. She wasn’t just telling me how to get what I wanted, as in – be nice to people and they will be nice to you, which was true. No, it was about good manners and how to act properly in a civil society, and how to treat others. Without even being aware of what was happening, I took her advice to heart. It became a way of life.

It wasn’t until years later, long after she passed on, that I realized she knew exactly what she was talking about. Born in a slower time, when the most exciting moment of the day was watching fireflies dance in the yard as the daylight waned, she saw society changing faster than she could comprehend. Yet, she knew that some things shouldn’t change, and if she worked at it, that she had a shot at instilling old-fashioned grace and sensibility in her grandchildren. It was all she had to give us. I don’t think I ever even knew that she was instilling a pearl of wisdom that would carry me through life. She taught me well that honey is sweeter, and sweet wins over sour any day.