Dave's

mother had a habit that he used to mimic irreverently.

She'd glance at a calendar and say, "Hmmm, today's

Aunt So-and-so's birthday. She'd have been 97." Of

course, Aunt So-and-so had died 15 years earlier.

To this

Dave would say, "Yeah, and Thomas Jefferson would

have been 237 if he had lived."

I learned

to put it more carefully: "My grandfather Wilson was

born 135 years ago today." No one could challenge

that phraseology, nor NPR's "Today is the birth

anniversary of...."

Dave caught

me reflecting upon my mother's sterling silver early in

July, and before I thought, I said: "Do you know

what day this is? Mom would have been 101 today."

For once

Dave held his tongue.

I had found

a brochure and a letter tucked in the bottom of the case,

and finally understood some of her reasons for buying

what she did.

Mom was

born in the last century to a Pennsylvania farm family

that would be considered poor today. They lived like

everyone else in their community, however, raising their

own food, cutting wood, their lives centered around

church and school.

In turn,

all seven siblings graduated high school, and most

returned to teach for a few years in the one-room

schoolhouse they had attended from first to eighth grade.

Most married rather late. One stayed with farming; the

rest, with a bit more education, went into business and

technical fields.

Mom went to

business college and moved to Harrisburg, where she

became a legal stenographer in a prominent law firm. She

owned the house she lived in and another that she rented

out, and cared for her mother until her mother died of

cancer in 1927.

I wonder

now if wasn't a bit unusual for a spinster in the 1920s

to "go to housekeeping" so independently. I

know that she emulated people she thought had good taste,

and seemed determined to shed all traces of her rustic

origins.

She thought

sterling silver was requisite for urbane living, and

chose "Gorham's newest pattern" in 1933, Rose

Marie, an exquisite slender art deco design.

After she

did marry, at 37, the sterling came out only for special

events. It became mine, as her only surviving child, when

Mom "broke up housekeeping," as she put it,

about 1971.

The letter

to her sister-in-law, a carbon copy, was dated Dec. 27,

1933.

Reading

between the lines I gathered that Aunt Hazel had some

contact that would allow her to order the sterling at a

deep discount.

Discount!

An accompanying brochure listed the pieces Mom wanted,

and their prices. I couldn't believe my eyes, even

knowing this was Depression era:

Twelve

teaspoons: $16. That's total, not each.

Eight salad

forks with gilt tines: $20. Total.

The pieces

she was ordering, "enough to serve six at dinner and

also to prepare for eight for cards," retailed at

$119, less a 30 percent discount, or $83.36.

I never

could figure out why she ordered gilt-bowled demitasse

spoons (at $8.67 for eight) and tiny butter knives, but

not soup spoons, two sizes of which were available. I

understood skipping iced tea spoons - she lived in

Pennsylvania.

Mom

conferred with the couple next door "who bought

their sterling when they were married, to see if there

are any additional pieces I may need. They both said they

seldom ever use the sugar tongs and never have used soup

spoons." She could always add later if she wanted

anything else, she observed.

She did, in

fact, add several pieces, serving utensils like a slotted

nut spoon and a jelly server. And I found a list she

typed in 1962 - a wish list perhaps? - that

said soup spoons were now $8 and $9.50 apiece, and dinner

forks had gone from $4 apiece in 1933 to $13.25.

I'm glad

she didn't opt for several other curious pieces on the

list.

What would

you do with orange spoons and oyster forks? A mayonnaise

ladle? Ice cream forks?

I certainly

would have purchased soup spoons before demitasse, and

felt genuinely handicapped not to be able to serve soup

properly with Mom's now-discontinued pattern. So I began

watching for them in flea markets and subscribed to

Replacements' monthly listings.

Over a

period of years to soften the blow, I bought what it took

to bring the set up to eight places. To further offset

the cost, I even gathered up and took to the flea market

half a dozen odds and ends of flatware, none very pretty

and all of unknown pedigree - but enough to trade

for two Rose Marie dinner knives.

Still, no

soup spoons. Replacements had them, both sizes, but I

felt faint at the price: from $30 to $40. Apiece. Plus

shipping and handling.

I went on

lusting for them, dropping hints to family for several

Christmases, birthdays and anniversaries - which

they later indignantly denied hearing.

Finally

Replacements' print-out listed enough cream soup spoons

to allow them to drop the price to about $22. I bit the

bullet and wrote a check, not even pretending this was

for Mom or my own daughters. This was for me.

Their

arrival was slightly anti-climactic. Eight tiny soup

spoons, nested together, don't make a very large package.

But here

they are, the brightest constellation in Mom's silver

case. At last I feel as though the set is complete, and

have not yet begun to hanker for iced tea spoons.

In 1933,

they were $22. For all eight.

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