Vanity Goes After a Fall

I don't remember the first time I heard about my mom's antique vanity; it's just one of those stories that gets repeated in the family every once in a while and just becomes part of the backdrop of the world as you know it. The world as I grew up in it included the broken pieces of the vanity, of which I only caught one glimpse when I was little, but I'm getting ahead of myself.

The story goes something like this: About 30 years ago, my mom was moving to a new apartment and, being surrounded by brothers and brothers-in-law, was not lacking in hands to help load her furniture on to the truck to move it. Unfortunately, said brother-type-people didn't do a very good job securing things and well, when you add a steep hill and gravity to a poorly-secured vanity, nature does the math and gets a grim result - all over the pavement. Ever since that day, my mom has lived by the rule "if I want it done right, I'll do it myself," and who could blame her? Lucky for her, and for the rest of us, she's competent and capable at just about anything she sets her mind to. She may be but little, but she is mighty, my mom is, and she loves as fiercely as she does everything else.

I, on the other hand, am not so little and not so mighty, not by myself anyway. I like to think of my philosophy a little more in terms of what happened to the vanity next. Sam Kelley, my great-grandfather, was a bit of a notorious packrat in the family. I was only 8ish years old when he died, so I didn't really get to know him, but from what I do remember, he was also a kind, gentle-souled sort of man. I like to think that this was the driving force behind his saving everything, as much as Depression-era thrift. Why else would he have gathered up the splinters and shards of my mom's beloved heirloom and stashed them away in his cellar, where they remained until after he died? I asked once, but no one would tell me anything other than I wasn't supposed to be poking around in the cellar.

Therefore, I'm left to draw my own conclusions. I have decided that Sam Kelley just couldn't bear the thought of seeing something treasured by someone he loved thrown away. I have decided that this was his way of loving - perhaps a subtle way, one that may not be noticed by anyone who didn't go looking for it. I could be reaching with this one, but it comforts me to know that this is at least a possible and plausible explanation, because I know how beloved he was, and still is among those who were lucky enough to know him. It comforts me because I see this pattern in myself and wonder if I might have gotten it from Sam.

I'm sure I could spend hours with an analyst to break down all of the reasons it's hard for me to come right out and just say "I love you," or why I smile and nod and keep my distance when inside I'm screaming for the chance to let go. I don't even think I could learn to flirt if it were taught at the graduate level. Well, whatever the reason, my heart or my shoes, I am who I am, and maybe, just maybe, people will see my unconventional declarations of affection for what they are. At least my apartment doesn't have a cellar, though it has got a vanity.