Little teapot
I do not know if memory is serving or disserving me, but I recall some time ago when my sister offered me a teapot that had been our grandmother’s. I was excited to have something of hers, as she died when I was six and I barely remember her. What I do remember is the scent of my grandma’s perfume and the six-packs of bottled Diet Pepsi we would keep in our basement for her, which she used to wash down her pain meds as she died of cancer. I guess the theory — aided and abetted by my grandfather, M.D. — was that the caffeine helped the medicine kick in faster. Indeed, Excedrin and other headache meds often have caffeine as an ingredient, so my backcountry doctor-grandfather may have been right.
Anyway, I gladly accepted the gift. My grandparents enjoyed collecting the finer things in life: gems and crystals, pottery, jewelry (which of course they never wore, being staunch E.G. White-thumping Adventists), and I assumed that this teapot was a treasure they had picked up on one of their many travels, perhaps in China or, given the design of the pot, England. So today, as I beheld the pile of grading ahead of me, I decided the only way through this involved tea.
I lifted down the pot and took awhile to examine it. It is ceramic and cream-colored, with a wicker-like texture (the kind you may have seen in wedding cakes frosted back in the 1980s). On its front are a few pink, nondescript flowers clearly envisioned by a ceramic artist who spent most of his time indoors. I would hazard that the flowers are something of a cross between roses and camelias, with perhaps the stamen of hibiscus thrown in for artiness.
I am very careful whenever I handle this teapot, as it has an elegant spout that pours well (something that can not be said for every other teapot I’ve owned) and I don’t want to chip any part of the squat little thing. Yet today, as I rinsed it carefully in the sink, when I turned it over I noticed the following inscription on the bottom:
So much for a family heirloom. Now instead of the spirit of my dearly departed grandmother inspiring me to finish grading, all I can think about is how overpriced and ugly nearly every Teleflora arrangment is that I’ve seen. And given the date on the stamp — 1985 — this was probably sent as a gift to my grandmother just after she’d been diagnosed with incurable breast cancer. Thanks a lot, fate.