Ida’s Spoon

        Annie Riley had a gift. Her pale blue eyes peaked out from behind thick locks of flaming red hair, the kind that reminded people who saw her of a home made Raggedy Ann doll as a little child, and a sea nymph as she matured. She was a wisp of a young girl, barely twelve years old, when she discovered, quite by accident, that she had “the touch”…the ability to put an object into the palm of her hands and have it speak to her through the caress of her slender fingers. Because of her unique ability it wasn’t surprising that Annie, a solitary person of sorts, kept the company of spirits and memories of a forgotten era, even now at twenty. Perhaps her ability was enhanced by the fact that she’d been raised at the skirt of her elderly grandmother in the old Victorian home, known to the community over the years as Molly Milligan’s Memory Mansion. 
        Molly Milligan was an intelligent, well bred, fifth generation New Englander with a good mind for business, and she set the tone for her shop by clothing herself and her granddaughter, when conducting business, in long dresses, skirts and high collared blouses she created on her old treadle sewing machine. The house itself had a story to tell, and was built in the late 1700’s by Molly Milligan’s great, great, great grandfather, a sea merchant whose ship docked in the New England Seaport town of Mystic, Connecticut where the mansion commanded a view of the harbor. Over the years, the antiques came and went within the walls of the commanding structure like the tourists and locals who walked into it’s entrance onto the creaking planks of well worn board. Both grandmother and granddaughter lived on the second floor of the mansion in three sizeable rooms, two of which were graced with imported marble fireplaces, these serving as bedrooms and the third as a parlor for guests. Like all proper mansions of yore, Molly Milligan’s Memory Mansion had a substantial attic on the third level with a widow’s walk. As a child Annie had preferred this place as a playroom, but now it was her place of solitude where she wrote into the wee hours of the morning at the antique piano desk of her great grandmother, Mattie Milligan, who it was said, enjoyed similar pleasures, for writing was indeed, the young girl’s greatest passion. It was here that Annie would put pen to parchment she’d purchased in 500 sheet packages at the rubber stamp store in New London and write down the stories each piece from her grandmother’s shop, held within her magic fingers, told. At Molly Milligan’s Memory Mansion one did not purchase merely an object; they purchased the essence of the story it told.    Tonight was one of those writing mood type of evenings, and after washing up the bowls from the fresh clam chowder and sourdough bread supper her grandmother had prepared in the kitchen that secreted itself from the public at the back of the shop, Annie gently hugged her grandmother and announced she would be writing that evening, perhaps, on the old sugar spoon they’d bought from a young man that day. “It doesn’t mean that much to me,” he had said. “I think it belonged to my great grandma but what am I going to do with an old spoon.” Molly Milligan had given him five dollars for the item and he’d seemed happy and left quickly, not looking back. But Annie had observed the ornate curves of the spoon’s bowl, the fancywork on the handle and the name “Ida” carved purposefully there, and she knew a sugar spoon, of all things, would have a story to tell. 
        Walking into the darkened parlor of the shop, Annie removed the sugar spoon from the glass case and carried it up the two flights of stairs to the inner sanctum of the attic. Holding the item in her hand, she pulled the chain on the overhead light, illuminating the room and sat at the old piano desk, where pen and parchment waited expectantly, closing her eyes and fingering the tarnished spoon’s formation. The words began to come in a haunting refrain as the spoon told its story. Ida’s spoon was an elegant piece gladly received as a wedding gift bought collectively by the ladies of the First Christian Church in Columbus, Ohio for one of its sisters and presented at her Engagement Party. It had a companion cake server. Ida was 24 at the time, rather old for a woman to be marrying. It was at Ida’s wedding that the spoon was first placed in a sugar bowl in the friendship hall of the church. The ladies who gave Ida the gift were pleased to hear a few complimentary remarks about the spoon and cake server by other wedding guests. As Annie held the spoon, she saw Ida as a woman jovial of spirit and portly of flesh who raised eight children, healthy and educated, taking in two orphaned girls whose mother had been a member of the local congregation as well. She saw a happy home full of music and a generous spirit and an element of faith that accepted God’s will as something beyond understanding at times, but trusted. Many hands had touched the spoon, as Ida herself, had touched many hearts. The spoon had been given to a daughter and the companion cake server had been given to a son when Ida was put to rest three years after her husband died in 1933. 
        Opening her eyes, Annie glanced at the spoon and smiled, then wrote with the calligraphic penmanship she’d learned from a book her grandmother had purchased for her as a child, the following words; “This sugar spoon was the wedding gift of a woman with a happy heart who sweetened the lives of others with her spirit of hospitality. Devoted to her husband and family, Ida, whose name is engraved elegantly on the handle of the piece, raised eight children of good report and took in two orphans as well. Your sugar bowl will take on new meaning with Ida’s spoon and its uniqueness will offer a point of conversation to guests and friends.”
        Standing up, Annie took the spoon and parchment in her hand and pulled the overhead chain to the ceiling light and descended from the darkened room into the light of the parlor of the old home. With her grandmother’s smiling approval and acknowledging nod, Annie placed the piece with its tiny tale to tell in the display case of the quaint shop. 
        The next morning, Mrs. Roger Henry, on tour in the historical seaport town, happened on to Molly Milligan’s Memory Mansion and saw Ida’s spoon. After reading its story, Mrs. Henry purchased it for her sister as a wedding gift for the sum of $60. Enjoying the hospitality of a warm cup of mulled cider, she wrote out a check to Annie, who carefully wrapped the item in rose-colored tissue paper. 
Mrs. Henry stated with enthusiasm, “I like this spoon. It has a good feel about it. It touches on personal memories of my own. And I like the idea of it being a wedding gift once more. It is quite elegant, but I like the story it has to tell.”
        As Annie entrusted the wrapped memories of years gone by into the woman’s hands, she smiled and said softly, “They all do. All these lovely pieces down to those old ice skates…they all have their story to tell. I love them all.”
        Molly Milligan walked up beside her granddaughter and put her frail arm around the girl’s shoulder caressing the red tendrils gently.
With a wisp of a smile, she stated, “And they all love you too dear.”
Then turning to her satisfied customer, the old woman stated, “Have a safe journey home and thank you for stopping by.”
        “Your shop is so enchanting,” said the woman enthusiastically. “I shan’t forget it and will remember you to my tour guide”
        As Mrs. Henry walked out the door of Molly Milligan’s Memory Mansion into a shroud of New England fog that laced her path, new memories began to unfold, like the petals of a Victorian rose, for Ida’s spoon, safe within her carpetbag. Off in the distance, the bells of the old Congregational Church welcomed another hour of the day.                         

                                                                                          Jennifer Grant