I knew I'd find it eventually.
The monkey bowl is tiny - the perfect size for a spoonful of nuts or maybe three olives. Nine years ago I bought it for my mother. It was the perfect present for someone surrounded by a lifetime of precious chotchkies. She could have a little snack from it while reading.
The monkey theme is imbedded in our mother-daughter psyche. There used to be a photograph of my teenaged mother in short pajamas. Her long leg is exposed, and she's holding a toy monkey - the same one I played with as a four-year-old visiting grandparents. I stared at the picture, trying to discern if this person, as I had been told, used to be a child. I wish I still had the monkey and the beguiling photograph.
When the time came to empty my mother's house, I painstakingly combed through several lifetimes of cherished items, separating them into things to donate, share or keep. The monkey bowl came home with us, along with four carloads of albums, dishes, tablecloths, candle sticks, lamps, rugs and many many plants.
If you would like some plants, I will arrange an honorarium in my mother's memory for each one you take. Attic items are also available.
I have an Attic Rule, that is sometimes kept. Every time something is brought to the upper story warehouse, something must be brought down for charity. When I manage to bring down an armful of things I am promised a good karma day.
Today I climbed the steep stairs to get the tea kettle for our trip and the hat box caught my eye. The only reason for hanging onto this old fashioned box was out of deference to its journey from my grandmother's Ohio attic to my mother's Maryland one. I didn't want to break the chain.
When I peaked in the box, I found a straw hat that might be nice at the beach. I pulled out the hat and found, safe and sound, the sweet monkey bowl, which had traveled safe and sound to its Veazey Street home.
The toughest route (and the road not taken)
16 hours ago