My maternal grandmother purchased a nice set of porcelain dinnerware in 1953. That was back when ladies got all giddy over fine china. One of my grandmother’s sisters had the same set of dishes. Perhaps they were thinking they could lend each other matching teacups if either hosted a large gathering.

I’m certain my mother told me all the details related to the fine china numerous times over the years, but I didn’t really pay attention because she was talking about fine china and no one cares about fine china anymore.

Ten days before I was born, in 1972, my grandmother died. It’s a strange kind of grief for me to carry, because it comes with a sense that it began in utero. The idea of my mother’s sadness transferring to the fetal version of me is a little silly, of course, and probably manufactured entirely in my imagination, but still, my grandmother holds a heavy emotional sway with me for someone I never met. It is at least true that I entered the world into a family in mourning. Learning about it later is enough to make it a memory. When I see a photo of my grandmother or hear a story about her, it punches me in the gut because we came so close to meeting but never did. If a story about my grandmother involves fine china, however, my mind will wander because there are few things less interesting than fine china. (more…)