The Cup

A hundred years ago, when I was nine, I gained unilateral permission to ride my bike to the local shopping center. It was about a mile-and-a-half from the house. (Those were different days. Very different days.)

Mother's birthday was the nineteenth of November. By the week prior, I had saved eight dollars (A fortune!) and on Saturday, set out on my bike to buy her a birthday gift.

The shopping center had forty or so stores, all quite nice. My favorite, after the bakery, (everything there made right there) was Loveman's department store. It smelled great. The clothing was downstairs and the furniture, appliances, and of course, Santaland, were upstairs. They had everything! Sometimes I fantasized about living there. It was the location of my first -- and only -- "getting lost," but that's a story for another day.

I headed straight for Loveman's, dropped my bike on the bike rack (no bike locks in those days; no helmets, either...) and stepped inside.

Loveman's was ethereal. You could hear the muted "ding-ding" of the elevator through the whole store. The lights were subtle. And, of course, as I mentioned, it smelled so good.

I browsed a little downstairs, but little or nothing caught my interest, and nothing could be had for eight dollars.

I took the escalator upstairs, and soon I saw a set of four mugs. Picture is above. This was so "mother." Mom loved autumn colors. Mom loved her coffee. I loved the Jacobean design, still do, even though at that time I had no clue that it might be a classic design, much less something called, "Jacobean."

I bought the mugs, and had money left for a card.

I was thrilled. Never before had I saved so much money. Never before had I shopped independently for a gift.

The ride home on my bike was a little precarious. Plastic shopping bags wouldn't be invented for about eight more years. The wide box corners began cutting through the thin paper bag before I even left the center. By the time I reached the busy avenue, I had decided to walk my bike all the way home. Even at that, the bag swung back and forth in my hand and the split grew quite large by the time I reached the house. I made it, though, and hid the package under my bed.

When Mother opened my gift, I could tell she truly liked it. I was so excited, so proud, that I burst in tears.

Through the years Mother drank her coffee from these cups. After I grew older and moved away from home, my visits to her always included a cup of coffee -- in one of these cups.

The original set of four dwindled to three, then two. By the time I came home to be with Mother during her illness, there was one cup left.

Daddy sort of flipped after Mama left. Even though she had painstakingly written our names on the back of paintings and memorabilia, even though she had left clear instructions as to who should receive which items, Daddy couldn't let go of one thing.

My sister and I communicated a lot during those days. We mourned Mother and we mourned those material things, just because having something of hers would allow us to feel that a piece of her was still near. I called Daddy and tried to persuade him to let Sister have the Haviland china. Mother had often told us of her great-grandmother receiving them in barrels from England.

All this transpired over the course of about two years. During the same time, I had endured a divorce, the loss of a job (downsizing!) and a move to another state. The kids and I lived in a small apartment here in Smalltown, USA.

About two weeks before Christmas, a small box arrived in the mail with directions written on top: Early Christmas gift: Open Now.

Curious, I tore into the box. There, inside, was the lone remaining cup. Sister had traveled to Hometown to check on Dad, and in a fit of human kindness, had filched the mug from the cabinet, tucked it into her handbag, and dashed for the car.

It is my prized possession. It sits in the safest spot in the mug cabinet. The family all treat it with kid gloves. I drink from it rarely -- twice a month or so -- just when I need a cup of warmth and comfort along with my coffee.

It brings up memories of my adventure, my love for Mama, and the Sister who loved me enough to steal the cup.