Essay: Treasure House (Final? Draft)
I may still fine tune it a little more over the weekend, but I rearranged a few passages and added on what I hope is a good conclusion.
Comments and opinions invited!
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When I was a small child, the lazy days of Spring and Summer belonged to my Grandma Fritz in Victoria, Texas. Her house shared a small city lot with her store- a single room that smelled of hot Texas summers and dry goods, with whirring freezers and refrigerators containing frozen treats, and soda pops in glass bottles. The bottle opener was at the doorway, and the soda would open with a popping hiss, the cap falling into a box that collected them with a soft little clink.
Both the Fritz Store and house were surrounded by plants- short purple wandering Jew and sweet-scented rosebushes lined the buildings, and the sidewalks fascinated me with the marbles and other small toys that had been pressed into them by my father and his siblings when it was setting decades ago. There was lush green grass, and always, around the back, a sprinkler ready for running through.
Even as a small child, the house itself seemed tiny, the four rooms cozy and doll-like. Though the living room was at the front of the house, inevitably it would be passed by at first when I visited, hurried through to get to the kitchen and dining room in the back, to see what treasures awaited there. It seemed that Grandma was always baking or had just baked something marvelous. Cakes and cookies were commonplace, but there were also fruit-filled strudels and kolaces that could be lurking within the kitchen, with delicately flaky crusts. The strudels were the top prize, as far as I was concerned, and I loved watching her make them- rolling and stretching the crust so fine that before it was baked, you could see the pattern of the checkered cloth beneath it.
The living room was both less and more interesting than the rest of the house- the furniture plain, and ordinary, covered in plastic that squeaked and stuck when you sat on it. There was a comfy recliner of black leather, a green glass bowl full of fake fruit, and the walls held photographs and collected plates. The plates depicted or named places family members had visited, as well as religious scenes or flowers and birds. Colorful plates and quieter plates, but most importantly there was “my” plate.
Of all the beautiful things in my grandmother’s house, this plate was most coveted by me. I’d always stop to look at it when passing by- even when making my dash to the kitchen. Brightly exotic, and laced with golden leaf, a flute player dances, her black hair carefully rolled at the sides of her head, and robes flowing in a breeze. Strangely twisting and curving trees and blooming flowers surround her, cranes lifting off in the background and a long-feathered songbirds flying overhead. When I gazed at the plate it was a window to a distant part of the world, and at night the flute player came alive in my dreams, the painted images fluttering and a hauntingly sweet melody echoing in my head.
The bedroom where this dream would come was off to the side, on a short little hallway with the powder-scented bathroom. There were treasures in the bedroom too- Grandma’s pedal-powered sewing machine and the soft cotton quilts that were made with it, a dark wood dresser bearing a brush, comb and mirror set made of old, ivory plastic with images of a couple enjoying a garden swing. There were sparkling rhinestone brooches carefully tucked away- though not so carefully that I couldn’t find and look at them, and pillbox hats sitting on shelves.
I was still just a child when my grandmother died, and the house and store were sold away, last seen by me over a decade ago. The buildings may still stand, or they may be gone, except for in my memory. The treasures of the house were divided amongst relatives, and while I gained and even lost some of them in the course of many moves, and many years of aging, I still have one particular treasure.
It is a plate, upon which a beautiful flutist forever will dance amidst flowers and birds, but even it has changed in a way. What once took me far away into my imagination now takes me closer to home, for when I gaze at the beautiful porcelain I do not always think of China or Japan, but instead I remember a tiny four-room house full of treasure and love.
Comments and opinions invited!
**************************
When I was a small child, the lazy days of Spring and Summer belonged to my Grandma Fritz in Victoria, Texas. Her house shared a small city lot with her store- a single room that smelled of hot Texas summers and dry goods, with whirring freezers and refrigerators containing frozen treats, and soda pops in glass bottles. The bottle opener was at the doorway, and the soda would open with a popping hiss, the cap falling into a box that collected them with a soft little clink.
Both the Fritz Store and house were surrounded by plants- short purple wandering Jew and sweet-scented rosebushes lined the buildings, and the sidewalks fascinated me with the marbles and other small toys that had been pressed into them by my father and his siblings when it was setting decades ago. There was lush green grass, and always, around the back, a sprinkler ready for running through.
Even as a small child, the house itself seemed tiny, the four rooms cozy and doll-like. Though the living room was at the front of the house, inevitably it would be passed by at first when I visited, hurried through to get to the kitchen and dining room in the back, to see what treasures awaited there. It seemed that Grandma was always baking or had just baked something marvelous. Cakes and cookies were commonplace, but there were also fruit-filled strudels and kolaces that could be lurking within the kitchen, with delicately flaky crusts. The strudels were the top prize, as far as I was concerned, and I loved watching her make them- rolling and stretching the crust so fine that before it was baked, you could see the pattern of the checkered cloth beneath it.
The living room was both less and more interesting than the rest of the house- the furniture plain, and ordinary, covered in plastic that squeaked and stuck when you sat on it. There was a comfy recliner of black leather, a green glass bowl full of fake fruit, and the walls held photographs and collected plates. The plates depicted or named places family members had visited, as well as religious scenes or flowers and birds. Colorful plates and quieter plates, but most importantly there was “my” plate.
Of all the beautiful things in my grandmother’s house, this plate was most coveted by me. I’d always stop to look at it when passing by- even when making my dash to the kitchen. Brightly exotic, and laced with golden leaf, a flute player dances, her black hair carefully rolled at the sides of her head, and robes flowing in a breeze. Strangely twisting and curving trees and blooming flowers surround her, cranes lifting off in the background and a long-feathered songbirds flying overhead. When I gazed at the plate it was a window to a distant part of the world, and at night the flute player came alive in my dreams, the painted images fluttering and a hauntingly sweet melody echoing in my head.
The bedroom where this dream would come was off to the side, on a short little hallway with the powder-scented bathroom. There were treasures in the bedroom too- Grandma’s pedal-powered sewing machine and the soft cotton quilts that were made with it, a dark wood dresser bearing a brush, comb and mirror set made of old, ivory plastic with images of a couple enjoying a garden swing. There were sparkling rhinestone brooches carefully tucked away- though not so carefully that I couldn’t find and look at them, and pillbox hats sitting on shelves.
I was still just a child when my grandmother died, and the house and store were sold away, last seen by me over a decade ago. The buildings may still stand, or they may be gone, except for in my memory. The treasures of the house were divided amongst relatives, and while I gained and even lost some of them in the course of many moves, and many years of aging, I still have one particular treasure.
It is a plate, upon which a beautiful flutist forever will dance amidst flowers and birds, but even it has changed in a way. What once took me far away into my imagination now takes me closer to home, for when I gaze at the beautiful porcelain I do not always think of China or Japan, but instead I remember a tiny four-room house full of treasure and love.