Objects of Spirit

               I possess items that I have carried from place to place and have every intention to do so until I no longer know what they are, or why I have them, or die before those conditions. Some are from my childhood, and the rest have been accumulated during my adult years.

They are my seventeen spirit keepsakes: A cheap ceramic white angel and a black and white photo. A ring and a pendant. A stone with a picture glued on it.  A worn and torn piece of fabric and a signet ring. A marble. A dresser scarf. An elephant figurine. Also, an aurora borealis bead; a small worn cardboard jewelry box; a wee pottery bowl; A Monopoly car; A train charm; A puzzle piece. And finally, a salt and pepper set. Seventeen pieces to remind me of the gratitude I have for those people each object represents.

For many years the number of items was static. All the people were dead, passed away, passed over the bridge, gone on ahead - whatever phrase one might find comfortable. However, in the past few months I’ve added a few more tokens as I give thanks to more of the people who had positive influences on me, supported me, believed in me, many of whom are still very much alive. There will probably be more additions. Recently I’ve started thinking of all of them, dead or alive, as my minor saints.

Sometimes these mementos are placed throughout my home. Sometimes they are gathered and arranged as an informal altar in my bedroom. I like them all together, but it seems that often enough at some point I have need of the horizontal space they occupy in my bedroom and so they are moved until I can consolidate them once again.

When they are gathered together, I think of them as a shrine or an altar. I add a candle and a vase for a flower. Occasionally a stick of incense. On the spur of the moment, not scheduled or an obligation, I stop in front of the display and thank each person represented by the token for their blessings.

For a long time, I resisted calling such an arrangement an altar. I associated the word with the Catholic altar where Mass was celebrated, or in my case endured, until I was fifteen and left the church. Father Joseph Schuler was a small wiry priest who was fearsome to young me as well as many adults. In his sermons, he spoke his truth about sin in words straight to the point (“You’re going to hell!”) and for twenty years yelled and harangued without regard to the microphone in front of him. He also let it be known, quite often, that sacrifice should be involved when parishioners decided upon the amount to be given to the church in their yearly offerings, whether paid in a lump sum or on a weekly schedule. Dad determined, according to his budget, the affordable amount the family could contribute. It was modest but reliable. My dad, who did not grow up in the Catholic Church but rather converted to Catholicism to marry my mother, resented these payments and the almost weekly tirade about the duty to give more, more, more, coming from the vicinity of the altar.

But home altars are common among cultures and religions all over the globe. Mexico and Latin American countries, Japan, China, Haiti, India, Nigeria and West Africa, South Korea, Vietnam, Russia and other Slavic countries – all have traditions of home altars. Christians, specifically Catholics, often have home altars, although the specifics vary between countries and cultures. They are common in Hindu, Buddhist, and Shinto homes. Jewish homes consider their dining table to be an altar. Chinese altars are influenced by combined influences from Taoism, Buddhism, and Confucianism. Pagans and Wiccan groups traditionally have an altar. Positioning of altars, the objects gathered, the purpose of the altar and so on, vary depending on the culture and the person setting it up; local foods are often included. The purpose is generally to remember the dead, honor the Divine, or to beseech gods for various favors.

My little altar is, of course, personal to me. Some items are fairly forthright in their reason to be there, but for most of them, I assign a meaning that would require a mind reader to decipher. I’ll save you from that endeavor and tell you about some of them.

The dime-store-quality kneeling ceramic angel with the hands in the prayer position, about four inches tall, is probably my most prized possession. It came into my childhood home from the funeral home that took care of my little brother’s visitations when he died at five years old. The angel was tucked in a yellow rose flower arrangement that was in a huge brandy snifter. Mom kept it there, substituting plastic yellow roses for the real ones, until the inevitable happened and the snifter was reduced to shards on the floor. Then the angel lived on the living room mantle for several years. At some point she gave it to me. Behind it on my altar is a black and white photo of Jimmy and me the summer before he died from leukemia.

A silver wire ring and a brazed bronze pendant that my Uncle Jerry made are there to remind me of his kindness one Christmas when I needed it. I was probably eight when the family including my aunts, uncles, cousins, parents, and grandparents, as well as family friends who were counted as family, gathered in my grandparent’s small living room to exchange gifts. I noticed that Uncle Jerry, then twenty, didn’t get a present. I whispered my concern to Mom. She laughed and loudly said something along the lines of “Susan is worried about Jerry not having a present! Haha!” In my memory, which may not be accurate, most everyone laughed. I was embarrassed; I ran and hid in a bedroom closet under the stairs, tucking myself in so no one could see me.  Eventually, Uncle Jerry found me (it was his bedroom closet after all) and explained that with the total number of family members more than people could afford to buy gifts for, names had been drawn so everyone bought and received only one present. He had received his gift (money) before the gathering.

He assured me he was not upset that he didn’t have a present to unwrap and he thanked me for my concern. He brought out a collection of hammered-silver wire rings that he’d fashioned and let me take my pick. By then I was calm and ready to face the group, most of whom gave me sympathetic glances or a wink as I left the bedroom holding Uncle Jerry’s hand.

The pendant of brazed bronze on a leather thong was also Uncle Jerry’s work and given to my mother. It was a raw piece, not her style. She hung onto it for a while and then gave it to me a couple of years later. I like it but I didn’t and don’t wear it either, but I can’t seem to dispose of it. It’s a nod to Uncle Jerry and creativity.

The small and smooth oval stone has a picture of my best childhood friend, Marilyn. She gave it to me, if memory serves, when we graduated from eighth grade and headed to different high schools. “So you don’t forget me,” she said.

Unfortunately, I was accustomed to people leaving my life, and that was how it felt to me (as crazy as that seems, and yes there’s a story there) even though she was only a mile away for years. I might have renewed the relationship decades later after my divorce and subsequent adjustment, but my Facebook search found her profile; it featured guns, lots of guns, and large dogs with their teeth bared. There was some sort of warning that indicated she might have been a conspiracy believer. That whole scenario scared me away. She died in 2017. Now I can only thank her by keeping her memory alive.

 The small piece of worn and torn fabric is from a button-down shirt that was worn and washed so many times it was reduced to just the translucent polyester fabric with a faint printed pattern; the cotton had all worn away. Dad refused to get rid of it saying that it was a perfect work shirt for around the house. I have a picture of him wearing it while standing behind saw horses and lumber during a home improvement project.

Dad didn’t graduate from high school since he had to drop out at sixteen so he could support himself and his mother. The gold signet ring on my altar was from his grandmother back in Pennsylvania; she didn’t give many gifts but when she did they were quality. I believe it was a token of her pride and love for him, and since she couldn't buy him a class ring, she gave him the signet ring. The gold is still shiny. He used it as a placeholder for the engagement and wedding ring he couldn’t afford for Mom in 1935. I wear it occasionally and it feels as reliable and comfortable as my dad.

The marble reminds me of Eddy, by marriage a great-uncle once removed. I think? He was married to my dad’s cousin, Norma. I believe they lived in the Bronx; they had no children. I probably met him only eight or nine times, between the ages of three and thirteen. He was in the hospital recovering from a heart attack when he died. He loved me. He was gentle in voice and manner. He taught me checkers, Chinese Checkers (hence the marble), played Old Maid and Crazy Eights with me. I lost all the games, not aware of the concept of strategy at the time. I’m sure it was boring as heck for him, but he played games with me as a way of paying attention to me and chatting with me. Norma said his last word was “Susan” and told Mom that Eddy had maintained that “If we had a daughter, I’d want her to be just like Susan.” I feel so honored.

Finally, a newly added-to-the-collection linen dresser scarf with cotton ecru crocheted trim. Now, after all this time, I’ve finally resolved my feelings toward my mother to a respectable degree and can honor the helpful things she did instead of focusing on the not-so-helpful things. She spent many hours of days and years crocheting; sometimes I think she crocheted so much not because she could do it and was good at it, but it kept her busy, and she needed the cognitive challenge that elaborate patterns presented. She made many afghans; also little angels that she starched stiff; snowflake ornaments; scarves; shawls; and trims for sheets and pillowcases. She also added crocheted edges to dresser scarves, of which I have two. I save them to be the base of my altar, to hold everything.

My little altar gives me peace. I come away from it refreshed and hopeful, more able to face daily and life challenges. The altar, the people it represents and the gifts they gave and still give to me, is there to remind me how lucky I am. I remember. I am always grateful.

When I go to resale and thrift stores, I often consider that many items are most likely from people who have passed on. I think particularly of the women who saved money for place settings for their china set, for goblets and silver flatware (plated or sterling) so they could set a lovely table. They treasured the china and glassware for which people these days have no interest or time or use or room to store them. I look at the older trinkets and figurines massed on the shelves. I imagine that they came from their family members, maybe Christmas or birthday presents from grandchildren or siblings or children, as expressions of love. The women gently and mindfully took care of the delicate pieces, dusted them and protected them. I bless them for their work.

They sewed and crocheted and knit, embroidered and quilted.  Many refurbished sewing machines dating from the 1950’s and ‘60’s are now listed on Facebook Marketplace, ready for another generation. Complicated doilies and embroidered card-table linens are priced for fifty cents or a dollar or two. White linen tablecloths for tables meant for a dozen or more diners go begging for someone to pay ten dollars for them. You can buy framed needlework of all types for a pittance.  It makes me sad to know that so much of it goes from the store shelves to the dumpster. I bless the women who made them

  Someday, some of my stuff, although not very much, will be on those shelves. I hope that a few things make it into homes that will appreciate them. And I hope that the buyers thank unknown women who were stewards of items made for gracious homes.