Family Treasures

All families have their treasures. After helping settle estates for over a quarter of a century, I’ve learned that the things that cause the most fights aren’t, in fact, the ones with the most nominal value.

Instead, relationships with siblings and cousins are ruined forever over things that have little monetary value; indeed, they might go into the trash can if the unknowing were sorting through the house.

Grandpa’s watch, although it’s broken where a horse stepped on it and smashed the works.

Aunt Lily’s soup ladle, which used to have a red handle but has been worn plain after so many years of service, and which was the one that she threatened to whack the kids with when they were underfoot and on her nerves.

A clock, long silent, with the face drawn in by hand when Grandma and Grandpa got in a terrible fight and Grandpa threw it in the bayou – then felt so bad the next day that he waded in and found it in the murk and tried to draw a new face for it with a grease pencil.

Stocks, bonds, bank accounts are all easy to divide. Accountants do their numerical magic, we know how much each part is worth and everyone gets their share.

Nobody can put a value on sitting on dad’s lap when they’re sick and playing with his pen, though, or learning to "shave" with Grandpa's straight razor when you're 4 or 5.

These things, while they have little intrinsic value, serve to spark memories that might otherwise be forgotten, a visual reminder to encourage the next generation to ask questions about these oddities.

So as we continue to clean out our house, I want to make sure that there are no rifts of that type between my brothers and I. I looked at several treasures and decided that one should be shared with another branch of the family before it becomes a topic of dissention among us.

I got it when Grandma Johnson died a few years ago. I was the oldest grandchild, so I guess the theory was that I remembered it longer than anyone else.

I like to think that’s the reason, anyhow. In reality, it’s probably more to do with a warped sense of humor and irony that goes through the family.  The fact that my brothers couldn't stop giggling when they presented it to me was something of a tipoff.

Grandma’s sister, Fern, was an accomplished ceramicist at a time when ceramic do-dads were an essential part of decorating your house. She undoubtedly spent hours on this decorative piece – a peacock about 18 inches tall or so. It has marbles embedded in the tail to reflect the light. We always thought it should have had a light bulb in it, but that wasn’t the case.

It was one of three or four things that would get your hand slapped if you tried to reach for it. Apparently, Grandma’s method of protection was effective, because it’s lasted close to half a century with only 2 toes broken off to show any wear.  One was taped to it's neck when I packed it up for shipping, the other lost to the ages.

It was probably the height of working-class chic' when Aunt Fern made it about 1958.  In the light of 2010, though, it's pretty damned ugly.

I wish I could say otherwise, but there's not much of a way to dress up that pig.

So last month an appropriate opportunity presented itself. My youngest brother and his wife have moved into a new home. The colors are a perfect complement, and I think that it’s only fitting that he should have the chance to fend his grandchildren off of it for a couple of generations until he passes it along.

Somehow, though, I think he’s missed the tenor of the honor which I’ve bestowed upon him. He accused me of “giving him the bird,” which is technically accurate I suppose but misses the whole, “thought that counts,” concept.

Of course, the fact that it gets this family treasure out of my house is just an added bonus.