On Mom’s antique coffee table, a deep green Asian-inspired piece once owned by my grandparents, sits a large crystal candy dish filled with an assortment of after-dinner mints and some old holiday candy. It is the kind of cut crystal that was popular in the 1930s. It’s about six inches in diameter with a covered pedestal lid, a mainstay among gifts of that period. Back in the day before television, cell phones, and the internet—when people went visiting on the weekends—every proper living room had a dish to serve visitors something sweet.
As a child, I always remember being told not to touch it. “That’s good,” my elders would say. Their harsh tone scared me, but I immediately understood that it was not a child’s toy.
I loved the delicate and artistic nature of all the fine things I saw in my grandparent’s home. I loved to stare and touch them all, imagining grown-up tea parties. I couldn’t wait to be big.
My grandparents were collectors. During the Depression, they knew how to barter. I’d always assumed that this candy dish was just another collected item, something traded. It wasn’t a piece that held much monetary value, but it had survived a few decades in different homes without getting chipped.
Only recently did I learn why it was “good.”
My mother was eight years old in 1929 when her favorite uncle, then 35 years old, finally chose a woman to be his bride. Uncle “Pep” (a name my mother gave him for his boundless energy) never had any trouble meeting women. He did his fair share of dating in the New York social circles. To test the waters when he began dating a woman, he would often bring his beloved niece—my mother—along. Uncle Pep wanted to marry a woman who would be a good wife and mother. According to Mom, Uncle Pep always said that if a girlfriend wasn’t comfortable around a little girl, then she was too self-centered to be a good wife.
Mom remembers that many women were immediately off put by her presence. Some were downright rude. Some tried too hard to make her like them. But finally he settled on Grace; she and my mom adored each other right from the start.
When it came time for the wedding, Pep and Grace received many wonderful gifts. My mother’s gift to her favorite uncle had to be special, and so my grandmother took her into New York City on a special shopping trip.
Standing inside the department store, Mom was just tall enough to push her nose over the top of the table. It was entirely covered with cut crystal glassware. The light shining through all those pieces looked like diamonds in the air. To be a little girl on a special shopping trip to buy a special secret gift was very exciting. It was only natural that the gift of choice, decided by a doting eight year old, be a candy dish.
Now I know why the elders always told me not to touch it, because “it was good.” Its real value was in the relationship between a little girl and a favorite uncle.
Aunt Grace and Uncle Pep on the beach in Florida in the early 1950s.
About today’s contributor: Mary V. Danielsen is is a personal historian and public relations consultant in New Jersey. Her company, Documented Legacy, helps people and organizations record aspects of their personal history by documenting their experiences, values, beliefs, and charitable decisions through the use of storytelling, legacy writing, and ethical wills. Mary is currently researching the art history of her great grandfather, Fidardo Landi.
Note: A version of this story originally ran in Mary’s blog, As Mary Sees It.
Photos from Mary’s family collection.
Mary,
I love how you made the connection we so often overlook about the relationships we have with the people in our lives because of some item that reminds us of them.
Thank you for sharing your story. I’m going to go look around the apartment for some item and see what lovely memories come flooding in.
Cheerfully,
Sam
Lovely story, Mary.
My mother had little silver urns in the living room and it was my job to fill them with cigarettes. When someone came to visit, they were offered a cigarette!
What an evocative story, Mary. It’s amazing the significance we attach to so item around our homes.
I have a small timber pot/jar, with a lid that is made up of different layers of timber from different trees. Dad made it at school when he was twelve to hold cigarettes and that’s my memory of it in our home when I was a small girl. I loved passing it around to dinner guests when my parents entertained along with a large table lighter. I have it in my home and, when I lift the lid, there is still the faint aroma of the Virginian tobacco cigarettes that Dad always smoked – ii’s a powerful memory trigger that always transports me back to my early childhood in Brisbane.
I am an adult woman but suddenly I am a four year old girl. The unforgettable fragrance of the Night Blooming Jasmine transports me to childhood…a childhood before I lost my father. He holds my hand and we remark on the magical smell wafting through the air. I wonder what huge plant could produce such a strong fragrance and he shows me…the jasmine, the tiny and delicate white flowers…not at all what I expect and only fragrant at night. Now, many decades later this flower still evokes it’s magic and brings my father back to me.