The bowls arrived yesterday. Lots of bowls. I\u2019ve never counted \u2013 Fifty? Seventy-five?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Their sizes vary like watermelons, from big enough to hold spaghetti for 20 to small enough for a child\u2019s Cheerios. Made in the Twenties, Thirties, and Forties, the once commonplace bowls range in colors that speak the language of the hills in late summer: every green imaginable and the dull yellows and browns of drying grasses. Then \u2013 here and there like wildflowers \u2013 a bold orange, yellow or blue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Over the years, these bowls served up everything that came out of our kitchen, but food was only the beginning. They held rocks and driftwood and sand dollars from the beach at low tide. One was for mail still unopened; another for mail stamped and ready to go. The yellow one-minded keys to cars we barely remember. Side-by-side green ones held notes from me to my husband, and notes from him to me. This wasn\u2019t the first life for our bowls. It was number two, or number three, or number four. I wish I had known the people who lived with them before us. These bowls have stories to tell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Two people got me hooked on bowls. The first was my grandmother \u2013 the clever, hugging, say-it-straight-and-add-a-few-salty-words grandmother. When she died, I snapped up the colorful dishes she spread out on her yellow Formica table three times a day. The oval turquoise bowl for cucumbers and green onions, the ivory \u201cnappy\u201d for mashed potatoes with a glob of butter, the yellow gravy boat for whatever sauce she made up for supper that night.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The second was Carolyn, our Salmon Creek neighbor with bright blue eyes, dimples, and muddy work boots. Every Saturday night, we listened for the grinding gears of her old truck as it crept down Bean Avenue. Then, the two honks in front of our house before she backed into her dirt driveway next door. My husband and I would stop whatever we were doing, hurry out the back door, and hop over the low fence to see what treasures she\u2019d found that day. It was a 20-year tradition.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Carolyn bought and sold collectibles, in the jargon of her trade. She got up early every Saturday morning to preview the latest warehouseful of used furniture and household goods on the block at Skips\u2019s Auction House in the next County. Skip got the call when it came time to liquidate an estate. He\u2019d divide the lifetime of acquisitions into manageable \u201clots\u201d a dealer could haul away quickly when the auction ended.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Carolyn liked to put in a low bid on the smaller boxes of well-worn household items that barely escaped going to the dump before the auction house finished its job. Occasionally she\u2019d spot a valuable find among the worthless pieces. Then she\u2019d be as thrilled as a gold digger discovering a hefty nugget in his pan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Carolyn had a sharp eye for the vintage bowls I love. Bauer, Brush McCoy, Fiesta, Red Wing, Weller, Hall, and many others. With luck, one of her \u201cMagic Boxes\u201d held an oversized yellow ware mixing bowl with the classic double red band \u2013perfect for popcorn. Or maybe she\u2019d found an 8-inch green Bauer Ringware bowl. That was the hardest size to find because over the years it was used most often and suffered the most life-ending falls to the kitchen floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
With only a few exceptions, no two bowls look exactly alike. Even those made by the same company and marked as the same size look and feel different. The less alike the better, if you ask me. So much more interesting that way.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Bowls lived everywhere in our house, sometimes alone, sometimes in rows, sometimes in stacks. No one stayed put too long. Always a different windowsill to sit in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Now the bowls have come to live in our new house. Last week we sold the house we built 30 years ago and bought a new one far away. We felt like visitors here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The pile of brown packing paper filled the kitchen by the time we finished unpacking last night. We stayed up late retelling the stories the bowls brought with them. Even though the stories were happy, it made us sad to tell them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
When we got up the next morning, there they all were. Bowls covered every inch of counter space in the kitchen. They huddled together with no room to breathe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
We spent the morning moving our old friends around, to the living room, to the bedroom \u2013 no, let\u2019s try the bathroom. Is that bookshelf OK? Does this windowsill feel right? That blue one\u2019s perfect for the mailbox key. We need one here for peaches. The more we moved the bowls around, the more settled they became. The more settled we became.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
That\u2019s just how they are, these old bowls. They\u2019ve lived this story before and they\u2019ll live it again, when new people fill them up with the bits and pieces of their lives.<\/p>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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