When I was a Brownie, there was a song called “The Hole in
the Bottom of the Sea”. I don’t remember all of it, but the concept of the song
(if kids’ songs HAD concepts) was that the hole was like a set of those Russian
nesting dolls: there was something in the hole, then something in THAT thing,
and something ELSE within THAT thing, and you had to reel them all off in
order, ending with “There’s a hole, there’s a hole, there’s a hole in the
bottom of the sea..” This is a metaphor for my house.
My ‘hole in the bottom of the sea’ is my dining room, and in
that dining room, there’s a piece of furniture. What am I saying? There are
THREE major pieces of furniture, and in each one, there are cabinets, and in
each cabinet, there are….more containers, more stacks, more collections of
stuff. There is china; there is cut glass; there is silver. And on every piece
in every container, in every cabinet, there is dust. Or film. Or tarnish.
It started innocuously with the linen closet in the hall on
the third floor. We needed more closet space, so I took the linens out of there
to make more hanging space. The tablecloths and napkins and other assorted items
that were required for genteel housekeeping in years gone by were taking up
three large laundry hampers-ful of space and were never used. So…out with those
card table covers, those delicate embroidered hankies that have been supplanted
by Kleenex! Out with the embroidered bread basket liners and the gossamer-thin linen hand towels that no
one dares to dry their hands on in the powder room! Out with the linen
placemats and the card table covers (CARD TABLE COVERS???!!!???) that require
ironing if one breathes on them! Out, out, out! The remaining heavy damask
cloths and matching napkins are refolded and stacked, along with a few table
runners. What you have to do here is suspend disbelief and imagine that you
WILL actually use these things at some point, although we all know for a fact
that any tablecloth you own will only fit tables that you have long since
discarded. All tablecloths are either too skimpy to cover the whole table, or
so lavish that they almost touch the ground on at least two sides.
The object here is to store these remaining materials in the
dining room, where they are used. And thus, we progress to my private hole in
the bottom of the sea. Or perhaps it is a BLACK hole, as most items that enter
there are never seen again. First stop is the shelves that hold an assortment
of cut glass. Punchbowls, candlesticks, bowls, vases, dishes…if it had a facet
and sparkled, I inherited it, bought it, or acquired it somehow. Nine or ten
dishwasher-loads later, the sparkle was back, but even the removal of five
years worth of dust made no more room on the shelves. “Put like with like,”
advised a friend. Okay. Again, no more room, but at least I could find things.
Moving on to the china cabinets, I found no tablecloth room,
though I DID find four complete sets of china and accoutrements thereof. Also 4 padded boxes of crystal glassware.
Removing the boxes gave up some space—enough to organize the tottering towers
of teacups and plates and dishes that threatened to topple each time the door was opened. The
crystal displaced the pressed glass in the china cabinet, and the china
re-organization displaced candles (how many colors of candles does one need?
Particularly when this particular ‘one’ uses them infrequently.) Now we have
progressed from the nesting dolls to ‘the foot-bone’s connected to the
ankle-bone and the ankle-bone’s connected to the leg-bone…’ Indeed, there’s a
hole in the bottom of the sea.
So. A week and a half after this train left the station, I
have trundled out to the Salvation Army with a hamper full of miscellaneous
tablecloths of questionable quality, along with similarly disadvantaged
napkins. I have dumped an assortment of chipped and cracked platters, plates
and cups. I have set aside a few crystal goblets to see if their chips can be
repaired. I have disposed of candles, holders, and other detritus of my
penchant for table-setting. Four box-loads of cabinet junk—gone. I have found
homes for a cache of milk-glass, though I have yet to pack and ship same. I
have polished three generations of silver that had been discovered/displaced/
bemoaned…with vows to use it in some way, shape, or form. Watch for silver
soapdishes, and trays converted to
wreaths and mirrors or used to corral stuff on dresser and end table.
I still have random items sitting forlornly in the limbo of
the dining room table—misfits in the grand scheme that are neither fish nor fowl,
but attractive enough, nevertheless, that I can’t part with them. What does one
do with the Aynsley demitasse cups and saucers? Where should I put the matched
trumpet-shaped cut glass vases? Is there some small corner for the china cups
from occupied Japan? And then there are the fruit plates. I don’t remember a
time when fruit demanded its own set of
bowl and matching plates. Yet I have two sets. Hand-painted in Germany,
and pretty, but useless nowadays. Perhaps they require fruit knives and fruit
forks or spoons in the silver service. I don’t have those pieces. Just plates
about the size of a small sandwich without room for even a handful of
chips. Just the size for a sliced apple
or a bunch of grapes. Or hors d’oeuvres. Maybe
they can be hors d’oeuvre plates, even though they are painted with
fruits and flowers. Sigh. For now they are stacked on the huntboard, awaiting
disposition.
Progress has been made.
But the tablecloths are still on the third floor.
