The Platter

Most visits to my dad involved a stop at the local antique market. This market was a warehouse of rented space to various vendors of antiques and junk. Dad liked to look for Fiestaware, small items from his childhood, antique toys for the kids...anything that was interesting. Most important was the hunt for Fiestaware. Dad knew the colors he was looking for, how much each piece should cost, the difference between real and fake. It was an adventure looking for the dishes.

Upon entering the market, the first space on the right had china cabinets filled with china, teacups, little sparkly knickknacks. The entire space was decorated like something from your great aunt's sitting room. Lots of old, frilly stuff. In the very back of the space, propped up on a table was a round, ivory Fiestaware platter. It was in perfect condition. I noticed it the first time we visited the market. During each visit, I would pause and look at the platter. It was beautiful and I really wanted it. I considered myself a novice collector of Fiestaware dishes. Dad had been giving me Fiestaware, little by little, for about a year. Each gift of the Fiestaware was like him giving me pieces of my mom. She loved Fiestaware. She would hunt it out at garage sales, rummage sales, wherever, buying chipped cups and saucers for $.25 at a time. The gifts of Fiestaware were like my Dad was saying to me, "You are worthy to have something of your moms. You are a good person like she was. I acknowledge the goodness in you by giving you a salad plate." It sounds ridiculous when I read it, but that is exactly how it felt.

I was sure I'd never have the platter. It was priced at $85. That's a lot of money for a plate. But I so wanted it. I admired it for about a year. Each time we would visit the market, I was sure it would be gone, snatched up by someone who didn't really know or appreciate Fiestaware. But, it was always there. It was waiting for me. For Christmas in 2002, Dad gave me the platter. It was wrapped in bubble wrap and brown paper. He handed it to me and said simply, "Merry Christmas." I opened it excitedly. I already guessed what it was by the shape and weight. I held the platter in my hands. It felt beautiful. It was a gift that he would have given to my mother, but she wasn't there, so he gave it to me. I was worthy of such a beautiful, pure, perfect gift. I held the platter on my lap the entire hour and a half drive home back to our house. I washed it by hand and placed it in the cupboard.

I loved the platter and everything it represented. Hors d'oeuvres and desserts were loving arranged on the ivory surface. The understated elegance of the platter made the food seem more appetizing, I was certain. The platter was one of my most prized possessions.

One Sunday afternoon, I was grilling pork chops for my family. It was an unseasonably warm, March afternoon and it felt so nice to be outside after such a long, dismal winter. I put the chops on the grill. I had two platters of chops and gave one to each of my boys and told them to take them right inside and place them in the sink. I turned around to tend to the chops and a few moments later, I heard a crash. I turned to see my son surrounded by the broken pieces of my prized platter. How could I be so stupid to hand my beautiful platter to an 8 year old? What was wrong with me? I burst into tears. I looked at the platter smashed on the driveway. My precious platter was broken. The crying turned to sobs as I stared at those broken pieces. It was the love given to me by my dad. There was his love, broken on the driveway. I couldn't glue it back together. It was gone. Never again would I have something to show that he loved me. My son went to pieces as he saw my reaction to the broken platter. I tried to assure him, through my sobs, that I wasn't mad at him. I hugged him and continued to sob for the lost approval that I had treasured.

My sister came outside and hugged me. She picked up the pieces of the platter and told me that she would crush it and make a mosaic out of it for me. The platter would live on, she assured me. I didn't believe it. The beautiful, ivory, smooth platter was broken. I never wanted to see it again. I never wanted to discuss it again. It would never be the same. I couldn't get back what I had. I could see Dad shaking his head in disgust. "She can't even keep the platter whole. I should have never given her such a responsibility to care for. She is so careless." I want to go back in time and place my beautiful, perfect platter in the cupboard and never take it out except to look at it and admire it for a moment and then put it back.