Seeing the "err" in heirlooms

Could it be time to burn the tallow candle?

(Come and set a spell in my crowded kitchen! Photo by Amy)

I assume that most readers who have seen glimpses into my home know that I am surrounded by old things. (And I’m not just talking about myself, here.)

I grew up in an old and falling-down house full of old, beautiful, and cool stuff. We also had a barn containing more old and cool stuff.

These things weren’t particularly “valuable.” They were part of a groaning collection of things gathered and saved by family members, starting probably around the time one of our ancestors settled in this area, in the late 1700’s.

[If I ever wrote a book about these things (I won’t), I’d have to include an entire chapter titled: “Broken chairs I have known.”]

When I was growing up, the attachment to some of these heirloom items could be extreme. That scratchy horsehair settee that no one dared sit upon (certainly while wearing shorts) originated in the parlor of a great-grandparent.

The hairy buffalo robe (made of an actual buffalo pelt) that sat moldering in a big basket near the television was used to cover the abundant laps of ancestors while they rode in the buckboard (currently located in the barn).

The television itself (a Dumont) was gigantic, encased in a wooden cabinet, and seemed to be powered by a team of gerbils. It was passed down from our grandfather, an early-adopter in our small town.

One of my favorite heirlooms is a small cracked and chipped china sugar pot with a faint gold and pink rim. Inside is a curled note with quill pen scratchings, along with a dried pink rose bud. The note says, “this was carried across the country in a covered wagon.” The rose presumably was plucked along the way.

Yes, there are stately wooden secretaries, oak furniture made by Stickley, silver tea spoons and gnarled napkin rings. A small stagecoach made of tin, which my grandfather played with as a child — now well over a century old.

(photo by Amy; featuring heirloom peonies!)

And the house, itself — an heirloom containing heirlooms — which was passed into my hands after our mother’s death. My sisters and I sat on the floor of the old house over the course of a couple of freezing February days, dividing up the abundant things our mother left behind, reminiscing as we went.

The buffalo robe had finally disintegrated several years before, but we did spend several minutes talking about it, bringing it briefly back to life.

In the process, I learned something about heirlooms. Without a story, these objects were just old things.

I edited my inherited collection with no regrets. I had any chairs which were viable repaired and then burned the rest in a bonfire on the lawn (trust me — it was time, and it was completely liberating). I had the multitude of paintings and etchings framed, and center my modern book collection around the old leather volumes that had been passed down. I washed, buffed, shined, and use the china, the silver, and the old embroidered tablecloths. I freaking love these old things.

This is where I learned the difference between a true heirloom and a nice old thing.

Heirloom items carry with them a family story, even if the story is fragmented, incomplete, and embedded only through a slip of paper and a dried rose bud.

Which brings me to the tallow candle.

(photo by Amy, featuring the notorious tallow candle)

No one knows where the tallow candle came from. No one knows how old it is or how it survived the many moves and jostles it has endured in the (likely) well-over 100 years since it was made.

No one knows how (or why) this one candle has survived well past its natural lifespan (as well as those of its various owners), completely intact and nestled in its brass candlestick. It has just always been … around. Shoved to the back of a cupboard, teetering in the back of a junk drawer, and finally — tossed into a cardboard box along with other random leavings.

When my niece Railey unearthed the tallow candle while helping me to clean out the house, we both sighed and laughed.

Ugh. The tallow candle. That freaking tallow candle.

It looks like a desiccated sausage, taunting me with its blank history and its total lack of beauty OR utility.

What I have discovered is that every single family member (not just I) knows the tallow candle and hates the tallow candle. No one wants the tallow candle. The tallow candle is just an old thing. No story whatsoever.

I was ready to release the tallow candle. Should I toss it out? Perhaps perform a ritual (and evidently stinky) burning, —preferably from both ends — during the next blackout?

When I talked to my daughter Emily about the topic of heirlooms, I brought up the tallow candle.

In the crowded tsunami of old things floating through our lives as a family, never in a million years did I imagine that she had any knowledge of this one item. I launched into a somewhat detailed description of its hideousness.

“You mean the tallow candle from ‘Mom’s house?” She asked.

“Wow — yes. You know about that thing?”

“Ha!” she laughed. “When I was a kid, every time I saw that thing I was afraid that if we ever lit it, the witches from ‘Hocus Pocus’ would show up.”

Damn. Now it has a story. And now I’m stuck with it.

DEPARTMENTS:

RJ Savage’s JUNK FOOD: The Red Violin and the looming responsibility of inherited stuff

Railey writes:

“The Maltese Falcon.
The Wizard of Oz.
Lord of the Rings.
The Red Violin.

These films all, arguably, hinge on the transfer of a thing to set the action in motion. A physical object functions as the central point of tension, around and against which the characters must demonstrate their capacity for change. Or not. Having a thing be the constant is effective because it highlights the passage of time in an impactful, pronounced way. But this device is also hard to pull off.

The 1998 film, The Red Violin, is a tragedy across five acts. The narratives that comprise the movie put us in 17th c. Italy, 18th c. Austria, 19th c. England, Shanghai in the 1960s, and modern-day Montreal. What ties the stories together is the violin; from its maker, to the auction house 375 years later the violin bewitches everyone who is un/lucky enough to be within its grasp. And the music it calls forth is otherworldly, but comes with a price.

Giving an inanimate object character – or, a role as a character – is typically only possible through characters’ reactions to said object. Like the monolith in 2001: the audience senses ‘thus spake the immortal slab’ from the carbon-based characters’ fearful reactions. The Red Violin does double-duty, though, by positioning the violin itself as a kind of insatiable muse who demands sacrifice from each of its successive players. The musicians all react to the violin, of course, but are also changed by the object – often in permanent ways. The violin’s legacy is a series of supreme accomplishments followed quickly by dis/proportionate concessions.   

The eponymous violin becomes a high-stakes heirloom: use it as you please, but use it at your peril. Perhaps this isn’t too dissimilar from the waking world’s attitude towards inherited stuff. The things our ancestors save, keep, and cloister are ascribed future value, which means they are only worth something when they’re not being used in the present. The violin’s siren song confirms this as it comes with a price, and often at the expense of the survival of a family line.

But you know what, pals? There is a line (albeit hazy) between honoring the legacy of your stuff, and being beholden to it. Sometimes the stuff can feel onerous in its supposed importance; this is valid, but not the whole story. Sometimes the stuff can be meant for the present. Sometimes the stuff can be meant for change. And sometimes the stuff can be meant for you.”

(You can find Railey — and her many creative projects — on raileyjane.com)

Laura Likes: Where my friend Laura recommends great things

Laura writes:

“I suppose when I think of "heirlooms," I immediately think of, well...things. Great-aunt Lydia's onyx brooch, Grandmother's ring, Dad's fountain pen, that sort of thing. But as I was considering the topic this week, I realized that the things I actually treasure from family members who've passed on are a bit more abstract.

I treasure my memories of my Great-aunt Una teaching me to sew. I treasure that my grandmother taught me to play bidding card games. I treasure the sound of cicadas in summer and way the light looked in the curtains behind the extremely uncomfortable couch in the parlor, which was only for guests (and upon which popsicle consumption was strictly forbidden). 

My sister Amy, probably 15 or 20 years ago, gave me one of the best gifts ever...like, Hall of Fame level. She went through some of my grandmother's things after Gran died, and found a stash of handwritten recipes and notes and bookmarks stuck in the pages of cookbooks. So she copied all these out and printed them on index cards, and laminated them and sent them to me.

Best. Present. Ever.  

So now I have these culinary heirlooms, the most precious of them (to me) being my Aunt Cecile's Red Velvet Cake, which to this day is the very best I've ever had, mostly due to the frosting, which I have since learned is really just Ermine Frosting (not too sweet! Cold! Delicious! Perfect in every way!). I just never knew, and couldn't figure out why I couldn't ever get the unique texture of the icing right when making cream cheese frosting, which is what I had assumed it was. (It wasn't. Do yourself a favor and try ermine frosting out, if you aren't a huge fan of exceptionally sweet icings.) At any rate, these recipes and the memories that go with them are the heirlooms I think about most often, pretty much every day.

I think my relatives would be glad about that. 

I’m including a little bonus “frosting” — A wonderful recording of the song “Family Reserve,” by Lyle Lovett.

Pour yourself a glass of cold lemonade, have a seat on the porch, and

click here to enjoy this ode to a very special heirloom.”

(Follow Laura on Twitter! @prairielaura)

Emily Mason’s Targeted Upsell: What the Internet wants me to buy

Emily writes:

“What’s new? 

It’s hard to shop for family heirlooms online. I mean, because heirlooms originate in the past, and the Internet is ALL ABOUT THE NOW, where do you even go to find them? With that in mind, I’m focusing on a whole new way to create a potential future family heirloom…

I give you: Cremation gems!

My research into this peculiar form of gemology reveals that cremation gems are created via a complex and time-consuming process involving Very Fancy Machines.

If you sign up, and somehow persuade a loved one to ship this company some cremains, around six months after you have shuffled off this mortal coil a portion of your cremated remains are transformed into a precious stone for your loved ones! 

(Apparently this is not just a ring. I will have to take the website’s word for it.)

Because the future is now!

The process costs a few thousand dollars, because of course it does. But in the end, you and/or that special person will live forever as a sparkly thing!

That’s worth it, right? 

Seriously, I’m asking here, IS it worth it?

Why am I seeing this?

This is one of those rare instances where I was directed to something by a human being rather than a search engine.

That being said, after several days of research on what I’m now calling “dead diamonds,” I am sure I will be receiving ads for…a myriad of new and interesting products.

Did they sell me?

Oh god…I hope not.

Don’t get me wrong, there are probably far worse ways to memorialize someone. It’s just that I don’t really want to be thinking about end-of-life arrangements for anyone right now, especially not myself. {But hey, you do you!}

As far as I am concerned though, this is a bad fit for me. As someone who is notoriously clumsy, I am having a vision of my future special memorial diamond, designed to commemorate me for eternity to those who hold me dear…

…accidentally getting knocked off the edge of the sink and wedged behind the toilet. Perhaps swallowed by a child and batted around by a pet or two.

Ahhh, memories. Sweet sweet memories.

Yeah, I am not sure a cremation gem is my style. Personality-wise I would not compare myself to a diamond anyway, I’m probably more of a very, very, very worn-out used book.

…Ooh, could I get turned into one of those?

Until next time, Internet.”

(Follow Emily on Twitter at @themistakemaven)

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