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| My wedding gown and my father's Marine uniform in Mom's hope chest |
Dave the plumber arrived at 11:30 a.m.
Monday morning and followed my husband to the basement posthaste.
The sounds of drilling
and flowing water through pipes from below soon provoked a smile. After the
smelly, inconvenient emergency of leaky sewage pipes, the repair progressed.
Within an hour Dave
bounded up the steps. Considering my mother’s motto, “an ounce of prevention is
worth a pound of cure,” I asked what caused the problem.
“Follow me,” Dave
said and returned to his completed project.
He eyed the large
pipe along the wall where I’d recently noticed broken plastic brackets that had
supported the pipes for thirty-two years. Dave pointed to new metal brackets. That’s
what the drilling was about.
“Those supports
won’t break,” Dave said. “The pipes are back in position and everything’s good.”
With this
assurance, Tuesday morning I returned to our disinfected basement and applied
Howard Restore-a-Finish to the exterior of Mom’s cedar chest.
It hurt to see the
wood badly abused. Considering the history of my heirloom, the numerous Kentucky
and Michigan basements where forgotten, my TLC was decades overdue.
The refinishing application
dried while I revisited the chest’s contents—what Mom and I once thought significant
to save for posterity. I found the darling yellow crocheted infant sweater and
tammy hat on the narrow shelf attached to the underside of the lid.
Everything in my
mother’s cedar chest tells a story I well know, except this darling handmade gift
that welcomed me into our family.
Three Carter’s baby
shirts from 1970, 1975, and 1976 also occupy the upper shelf. Becky, Kelly, and
Ruth, my children, wore those teeny “kimonos,” as their Nana called them.
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| Mom's cedar chest in process of restoration |
I dug within the
chest and discovered the long, white gloves, muff, and red velvet dress I wore
as Maid of Honor for my older sister’s wedding December 28, 1968.
Mom accommodated a
houseful of out-of-town guests for her firstborn’s wedding. Her brother wrote a
timed schedule for our one bathroom and taped it to the door to ensure we all
made it to the church on time, bathed and shaved.
In March of 1946
when my mother wed, how could she imagine such a family celebration when she
filled her Lane with linens and other wedding gifts?
And how could I
foresee my wedding gown would occupy the same trousseau with my father’s two
Marine informs? One the military brown shirt with blue pants, the other a blue jacket
with red piping and brass buttons.
Three generations weave
together my family history with the scent of cedar, lavender, and wool. Each
item speaks hope restored, even in the deep loneliness of separation and death.
Dear Reader, someday,
after I’ve refinished my heirloom to the best of my ability, I will elevate my
inherited Lane to my master bedroom. I have more keepsakes to add.
Meanwhile, my treasure
chest is safe in the basement. Dave said no more leaky pipes. And I’m taking
him at his word.
