There is a small wooden spoon I painted in the tenth grade
with the head of a typical peasant girl dressed in Romanian ethnic scarf. I
saved it in memory of my grandmother whom I used to watch prepare food for our
family with such a simple wooden spoon decorated with chiseled burns onto the
handle.
I pulled out an intricately hand-made leather wallet. I
opened the folds and the smell of leather wafted like a fine perfume. Dad gave it to my husband as a wedding
present 40 years ago; it looks as it did the day my Dad purchased it. Bill
never wore it because it was too big, it did not fit American dollars but I
saved it. There are no slots for credit cards; back then, credit cards were
unheard of. We conducted business with cash, personal checks, and traveler’s checks.
Farmers used the old system of barter. People strapped for cash paid for the
doctor’s visit with chicken or a dozen fresh eggs.
Dad used to order hand-made fine wool suits for his
son-in-law but a gentleman farmer did not need such fancy clothes. We always
gave them away to a Chinese friend who wore the same size. Dad never knew and
he continued to order one new suit each year. I am sure, it cost him a pretty
penny. I did not have the heart to tell him to stop; it made him happy to keep
my ex well-suited. Dad’s cousin was a cobbler who made fine leather shoes to
order. They were beautiful but very uncomfortable. Bill never wore those
either. We gave those away too but we did tell Dad the truth about the shoes.
A delicate ladies watch, well-worn, was my gold watch I
bought when I first started to work in the U.S. I am not sure why I bought a
real gold Swiss watch for the grand sum of $150, my weekly pay. I wanted
something that would last a long time, which it did, but also something
valuable that no communist would ever confiscate just because they were in power.
I was told Wyler Swiss watches are no
longer made.
At the bottom of the box is an album which Mom assembled
when Dad passed away. I opened a few pages and I realized that they are all
photos from his funeral. So painful to look at his casket, the mourners, the flowers,
his frozen face in death, barely recognizable after the long suffering in a
hospital that gave him no food or fluid infusions for three weeks prior to his
death. Aunt Marcella fed him droppers of
liquid and kept him alive until he lost so much weight that his organs began to
fail.
Aunt Marcella, now 92 years old, is still alive and,
following a successful broken hip repair surgery, has been moved to a nursing
home that caters to the elderly with special medical needs who have no
immediate relatives. Such places did not exist under communism, families took
care of the elderly. But families have split up all over the world now.
A sterling broach, now tarnished black, is my 1977 wedding present
from Dad. He bought it in the Omnia department store in our home town for 900
lei, literally more than his entire month’s salary. He had seen me admire it in
the window every time we strolled past the department store on weekends. It was
such an extravagant gift! I cleaned it and the delicately woven silver looked
brand new again. Tiny amethysts cabochons decorated the round surface. It must
have been made in China because it was the only trading partner for fine
jewelry during the communist era.
A silver fish pendant, covered in delicate cloisonné scales,
was a gift which Mom brought back when she traveled to the home country in the
mid-nineties. There is an old silver violin and a frog pin I collected from the
early 1980s. They have oxidized as well, not having been touched in decades.
A beaded flower necklace I painstakingly strung bead by bead
added color to the Memory Box. I was so homesick and lonely in 1978, I picked
up the hobby from a craft book. An experimental artist at heart, I could not afford
to paint or draw, materials were hard to find in the backwoods where we lived
and probably expensive, way out of reach for our $200 per month income. But
beads, a needle, scissors, and fishing nylon thread were cheap. And my eyes
were sharp as an eagle’s back then. One solitaire gold earring, still shining,
was stuck in the red velvet lining in the corner. I wondered who lost the other one.
A black-beaded and quite heavy evening bag, with its brass
snaps and chain turned green from the passage of time, was not missing any of
the intricate design opaque beads. Daddy gave it to me before my high school
prom to match the red woven polyester dress. I have worn this black bag many
times since to parties and held it close to my heart and wrist. It was
something tangible from the Old World that I missed so much. And Daddy worked
really hard to buy me this special gift.
The brass key to the Memory Box is still held by a red and
white silk tassel. The beautiful mother of pearl inlay swirled delicate cranes.
The box came all the way from Korea in our friend’s luggage who was assigned
there on military duty. He had expensive
taste and knew how to pick lasting gifts. The dark wood and lacquer stood the
test of time quite well despite the humidity in the South.
What will happen to this box one day, who will throw its
contents away and replace them with her cherished memories?
Beautiful, Ileana. I too have a box. It is now empty, but growing up it was always where my parents kept important papers--car titles, birth certificates etc.
ReplyDeleteIt is very tacky and badly worn. I should throw it away, but the memories won't let me.
You must keep it, Chriss, it is part of your past. I could never part with mine. And I put Daddy's photo next to it.
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