I remember buying my first set of plates. I had one little rinky-dink plate I always used for grilled chicken and steamed veggies. I was working at a small department store in a former factory town. Most people’s goal was to have their own apartment so they could do what they wanted and not be under the thumb of their parents. I just wanted a nice plate set.
At this point college and I decided it was best to see other people. It would see students who would show up and do the work and I would go out in the real world and try to do the work that allowed me to live the life I wanted to lead. Since the factory closed down I took on the only two jobs that would hire me locally - grocery store clerk and stock boy at the department store.
These were transition jobs. Most of the kids were either home for the summer or making the jump from college to the real world. Since the factory had shut down small department stores, grocery stores, movie theaters, and restaurants were the only things keeping transition kids around.
The real money jobs were an hour away in either Stamford or Hartford. Hartford was all about insurance. Stamford was the gateway to the financial corridor that led from Fairfield County to Manhattan. The actors and musicians were headed to New York or Los Angeles to make their dreams come true. Other people made the decision to go to Boston where you not only had a combination of insurance and finance, theater and music, you also had a strangely constant view of the Prudential building. Everyone was struggling to get on their own two feet.
I just wanted plates. In the summer of 1992 I found them.
It took an entire summer to afford the set I had my eye on. I knew from the moment I saw them that they were what I wanted. They were non microwave, hand wash only, bone white with a silver ring fine china. There were 4 dinner plates, 4 soup bowls, 4 bread plates, 4 coffee cups and four saucers for the coffee cups.
In my mind having a set of plates also meant you had a place to put them. You had friends over to break bread, share dinner, and serve coffee.
After a long work week in Stamford or Hartford you would pull out the good plates and have a party. When people came back to visit from New York, LA, or Boston you would laugh, cry, and lament over the experiences they shared while using the good plates. Having plates meant you had a place for them. Having a place for them meant that there was a place for you.
The box they came in was so heavy with possibility. I remember the first time I opened it to make sure no plates were broken. I remember putting it in a safe place so when I finally moved into my own space this would be the first box I grabbed.
For the next 22 years the box moved from one side of the pantry to the other. The jobs got better but they weren’t quite good enough to let me lead the life I thought I was supposed to lead. Three times the box was almost given away as a either a wedding gift or a housewarming present. Twice it was almost donated to charity and once it was almost thrown into a dumpster.
The next time the box was opened was when I finally bought my first house. I had settled on a quiet little area that was midway between Hartford and Stamford, and just a little bit closer to New York than Boston. I remember loading the non microwave, hand wash only, bone white with a silver ring fine china into my cabinets.
That night I celebrated by eating grilled chicken and steamed veggies on a rinky-dink plate.
No comments:
Post a Comment