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[Note simple cylindrical vase, perfect for a thousand centerpieces. I planned that damn wedding, I kept useful vase as swag.]
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So, we are leaving My Little Town and moving to the East Bay (Alameda, Oakland, Berkeley, Kensington, and all ships at sea: watch out!).
I'll tell you about that later. Little Edie and Big Edie finally decide to leave Gray Gardens, go to the big city, get over their own selves, and have lives. I'll discuss how we got here later. Maybe not.
Here's a snapshot from the process:
Today, Mom and I sorted the top shelves of the kitchen for obvious stuff that can go. There was an entire, unused set of brand new dishes up there I didn't know about. Not fine china, an everyday set of Thai "china." For eight. Soup to teacup. VERY floral. I hate it. BUT, she remembered buying the set, and it was a pleasant (i.e., Jacques-revenge) memory. So I said, Damn, you've been using the same old dishes (I don't mind them, but they are Boooooooringdull) for how long??? Remember going through your dead grandmother's things, and she had put away everything nice for later? Let's donate the old dishes and use these.
Fuck me, she positively bloomed. I can live with intensely floral everyday if it gives her a kick.
She pointed out family pieces in the upper shelves (which I will keep without question) and she was absolutely ready to let go of various deviled egg dishes and cat shaped candle-holders. I donated a lot, even good stuff (to the sale pile) and defended to the death my 1950's Merry-Go-Round themed zombie glasses, a set of ten. Was 12. Over 25 years of ownership, not bad. I am The Holy Custodian of zombie glasses. They are just cool.
Then we tackled the vases. Neither Mom nor I ever met a vase we didn't like. This is the first Really Hard sorting. When we get to serving bowls and baking dishes, it will be painful. When we get to books and furniture, it's going to be bloody.
So, warming up with vases. Well, we've gotten it down to one full kitchen cabinet. I mean, you gotta save the Waterford. Mom went on a Waterford binge right after the divorce. I put my foot down over a couple of other heavy lead crystal numbers from lesser artisans, she should have ONLY Waterford. She agreed. The also-rans are on the living-room table which I've designated as "Estate Sale". The dining room table is "Donate" -- Lori the housekeeper gets first pass, unless Houston sends up a shout. Then, it seemed, every vase had a story. These matched two were wedding gifts from the Italian, Kansas City side, when she married Tony. (They are so-bad-they-are-good 1951 porcelain swans with raised rosettes and lots o' gilt -- and good Catholic guilt -- so we kept them.) Then we hit the ribbed goldfish bowl I've had since an ancient floral gift during my first marriage in the '80's. I remembered the Oscar parties when it held an art-deco gold and black arrangement 4 feet tall. I remembered filling it with old Christmas balls for an open house. I remember a dead Siamese Fighting fish. We kept it. Mom found several vases "disturbingly sexual" (at which point I asked, "It's been a long time since you've seen any action, hasn't it?" and we collapsed, giggling.) Those went to donations. A silly yellow California post-WWII pottery figure of a Non-PC stereotyped Chinaman, a gift from Mom's best friend in the 40's. Had to keep, another so-bad-it's-good.
And so on. It was fun. You know, this is wonderful. I hated going through my father's things when he died and wished he were there to reminisce. We get to do this NOW.
There's something holy about this.
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