I managed to do a bit of writing over the holidays but never posted them as blogs. Christmas is now dismantled and packed away in the attic, our company has left and New Year’s is in the rear view mirror. The holidays can feel like running a marathon, so much squeezed into every day until it bulges at the seams but now life is back to a normal routine and the days are jogging along at a leisurely pace.
Written in December.
The Christmas season doesn’t begin until I complete a holiday ritual; polishing the family silver. Lots of little things like, candy bowls, vegetable dishes, a cruet, candle stick holders, and last but not least, my coveted tea set. Every year I tackle the tarnish and make it all shine as brilliantly as the day it was manufactured.
When I say family silver, I mean in the immediate sense. None of this collection is of heirloom status from either my husband’s or my lineage. The tea set is the closest at qualifying as a family treasure, it came from my mother-in-law who was bequeathed it by a friend who passed away, while all else came from yard sales and antique stores. I bought all of my so called heirlooms, back in the day when I became breathless every time I spied a piece dangling a price tag, sitting unwanted, unloved and tarnished. Driving by a road side table, my trained eye would spot metal glinting in the sun and I’d risk whiplash braking to a stop.
I’m well known for my polishing and every year we spent visiting my in-laws, Wynn and I would rescue the tea set from the back of her linen closet and I’d rub it affectionately to a mirror finish. She would let it sit out until the dulling crept over the surface like a dense fog, then pack it away to await my return. She saw the lust in my eye as I charmed the beauty to the surface, saw me wipe away the drool and graciously offered it to me when she downsized to assisted living. I’d already purchased a set decades before but it was plain in design and was immediately stashed in a cupboard to make room for my new, fabulously ornate, almost family heirloom. My new Precious!
The week before Christmas, while traditional holiday tunes played in the background, three hours melted away along with the tarnish. I use Silvo and Twinkle. I prefer the latter, water based product but the Silvo is needed for the stubborn areas and then Twinkle cleans it up nicely. By the end I was feeling it all over, the standing, the bent posture, the elbow grease sawing back and forth, rubbing with puckered fingers even with gloves on. By the time I was at the last piece, the coffee pot, I was whining like a bad bearing on a motor and wanted it to be over, my enthusiasm was the only thing that remained tarnish.
I’ve made up a name for my affliction, ‘Crow Syndrome’. Not sure when or why it began, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but from a young age I liked shiny things and it grew with me until I had the income for it to burgeon into an obsession. Those days are over of course; I can’t get excited over derelict silver offered for sale when I already have too much that will need to be reckoned with.
I’m thinking my polishing days might be ending or maybe I should play it a bit smarter by bagging it up after the holidays so it doesn’t oxidize to the degree I feel like its scraping paint with a tooth pick. All those little bits around the handles and engraved pattern take a lot of rubbing to remove the hardened charcoal patina, the result of sulfur in the air combining with the silver to create what’s called Acanthite. I’ll probably keep the tradition going, I like a sparkling house during the holidays, but it sure would be nice to only do a light touch-up next December. Leaving it all out to turn an iridescent black and blue seems unfair, forcing it all to be ugly ducklings, when they should be swans to behold.
Another thought surfaced as I rubbed my fingers into cramps, there is no one coming after me that will continue the tradition. When I’m gone, it will all be sold for a pittance or discarded along with the rest of my treasures. Unfortunately, although the pieces have the potential to live for many more years, these beauties are cursed by my mortal life span and then it’s toast for us both. I’m a dying breed. The masses don’t want or appreciate silver or the maintenance that comes with it, only freaks like me.
I don’t want to dwell on the inevitability of my death or the fate of all the stuff I’ve collected and cherished and surrounded myself with. Now I’m blasé about it all, even begrudging the care and upkeep, I’d rather be doing something creative and fun. The plan is to get rid of it in yard sales; maybe I’ll find a kindred spirit, cause a near crash for someone else on the hunt for the Precious! Surely there are a few old souls left, suffering Crow Syndrome that still appreciate the formalities of past grandeur in the dining room.
Written in December.
The Christmas season doesn’t begin until I complete a holiday ritual; polishing the family silver. Lots of little things like, candy bowls, vegetable dishes, a cruet, candle stick holders, and last but not least, my coveted tea set. Every year I tackle the tarnish and make it all shine as brilliantly as the day it was manufactured.
When I say family silver, I mean in the immediate sense. None of this collection is of heirloom status from either my husband’s or my lineage. The tea set is the closest at qualifying as a family treasure, it came from my mother-in-law who was bequeathed it by a friend who passed away, while all else came from yard sales and antique stores. I bought all of my so called heirlooms, back in the day when I became breathless every time I spied a piece dangling a price tag, sitting unwanted, unloved and tarnished. Driving by a road side table, my trained eye would spot metal glinting in the sun and I’d risk whiplash braking to a stop.
I’m well known for my polishing and every year we spent visiting my in-laws, Wynn and I would rescue the tea set from the back of her linen closet and I’d rub it affectionately to a mirror finish. She would let it sit out until the dulling crept over the surface like a dense fog, then pack it away to await my return. She saw the lust in my eye as I charmed the beauty to the surface, saw me wipe away the drool and graciously offered it to me when she downsized to assisted living. I’d already purchased a set decades before but it was plain in design and was immediately stashed in a cupboard to make room for my new, fabulously ornate, almost family heirloom. My new Precious!
The week before Christmas, while traditional holiday tunes played in the background, three hours melted away along with the tarnish. I use Silvo and Twinkle. I prefer the latter, water based product but the Silvo is needed for the stubborn areas and then Twinkle cleans it up nicely. By the end I was feeling it all over, the standing, the bent posture, the elbow grease sawing back and forth, rubbing with puckered fingers even with gloves on. By the time I was at the last piece, the coffee pot, I was whining like a bad bearing on a motor and wanted it to be over, my enthusiasm was the only thing that remained tarnish.
I’ve made up a name for my affliction, ‘Crow Syndrome’. Not sure when or why it began, I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth, but from a young age I liked shiny things and it grew with me until I had the income for it to burgeon into an obsession. Those days are over of course; I can’t get excited over derelict silver offered for sale when I already have too much that will need to be reckoned with.
I’m thinking my polishing days might be ending or maybe I should play it a bit smarter by bagging it up after the holidays so it doesn’t oxidize to the degree I feel like its scraping paint with a tooth pick. All those little bits around the handles and engraved pattern take a lot of rubbing to remove the hardened charcoal patina, the result of sulfur in the air combining with the silver to create what’s called Acanthite. I’ll probably keep the tradition going, I like a sparkling house during the holidays, but it sure would be nice to only do a light touch-up next December. Leaving it all out to turn an iridescent black and blue seems unfair, forcing it all to be ugly ducklings, when they should be swans to behold.
Another thought surfaced as I rubbed my fingers into cramps, there is no one coming after me that will continue the tradition. When I’m gone, it will all be sold for a pittance or discarded along with the rest of my treasures. Unfortunately, although the pieces have the potential to live for many more years, these beauties are cursed by my mortal life span and then it’s toast for us both. I’m a dying breed. The masses don’t want or appreciate silver or the maintenance that comes with it, only freaks like me.
I don’t want to dwell on the inevitability of my death or the fate of all the stuff I’ve collected and cherished and surrounded myself with. Now I’m blasé about it all, even begrudging the care and upkeep, I’d rather be doing something creative and fun. The plan is to get rid of it in yard sales; maybe I’ll find a kindred spirit, cause a near crash for someone else on the hunt for the Precious! Surely there are a few old souls left, suffering Crow Syndrome that still appreciate the formalities of past grandeur in the dining room.
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