My Grandmother's Bowl Is Worth More Than A Picasso

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My sister and I had a conversation with my mom the other day about how my siblings and I will decide who gets what objects when my mom passes. It was a smart conversation to be having, but I was confused. I’ve been under the impression since I was a little girl that my mom’s never going to die. Has something changed?

My mom doesn’t want us four kids to spar over our family’s keepsakes once she’s gone, and I don’t think we will. All four of us seem reasonable in this regard — generous, understanding, fair. But you never know. This is why we were discussing such a scenario.

I spoke up and said I was an easy cog in the wheel because I tend to — intentionally so — want mundane objects of little monetary value. I’m drawn to the things that remind me of the day-to-day workings of someone’s life or a place. Very few objects in my corner of the world have substantial monetary value. Neither I nor my extended family own Picassos (though I saw one once on my friend’s parent’s wall — can you believe it??)

There is a bench in our family that rumor had it was once owned by Thomas Edison. I think that theory has been debunked. The other week we were talking to my husband’s longtime family friend who revealed he’s a relative of both John Cheever and Thomas A. Watson. The family still uses a summer home the Watsons owned. No doubt, that family has stuff of historical significance.

My family’s belongings have sentimental value, which for four siblings who have everything they need, the emotional battle for a beloved object could become a thing. But is an object worth fighting over? Fighting with family? Never. There will always be another thing in the next box from the next period of someone’s life that holds meaning. In my family, there are plenty of options.

There’s discussion out there about paring down as small as you can — minimalism. I’m a proponent of this concept, though I’ll never choose it for myself. I understand the freedom that owning fewer things can bring to the mind. But this doesn’t mean it’s one or the other, all or none. It means I can be informed by the well-accepted idea that having too many objects takes from me rather than gives. As with so much, it’s a matter of dosage.

Objects are not faulty things. They keep our teeth clean and the rain and snow off us when we sleep. They show us movies, transport us to important events, and keep our food cold for extended shelf-life. For me, they got me through graduate school, helped me raise two sons, run a bazillion miles, and write this to you today.

They can enable human connection, extend our lives, and provide livelihood. In the case of memories, they hold our personal stories. They embody our loved ones who’ve passed on.

What can an object do better than memory alone? It can remind us of our lives when our autobiographical memory — the part of memory that handles our personal history — goes on vacation or retires. It also enhances perspective. That figurine we inherited and placed carefully on the mantle brings back the dresser it used to sit on, the things that happened in that room, and the greater meaning it all had.

Objects can help us to remember, ponder, process, and synthesize our lives.

This means the relics we choose to take into our homes as reminders of loved ones, to my mind, should be very special. The more objects I take into my home, the more diluted in importance they become. Five hats, several pieces of furniture, tons of books, scads of kitchen equipment, hordes of gardening tools, bags and boxes of hobby paraphernalia. Too much stuff loses its voice, and you no longer have an exalted representative object of the past. You don’t have the person in your home. You have their objects.

Sometimes a loved one’s things coincide with our interests, so taking ownership of things we can use is a great idea. But if I take something I’ll never use, that object is squandered, and I’ve robbed my loved one of the opportunity in death to help someone whose life might be better with those objects instead.

I don’t need much at this point in my life. When I see my grandfather’s piddly cufflinks in the small, pretty bowl on the counter in my walk-in closet — my special spot in the house — I’m reminded constantly of how much I love my grandfather. Love — in the present tense. Love — because of a teeny object I can see every day. So much love kept alive and growing because of the tiniest object I could have chosen from his trove of things.

It doesn’t take much.

When I see one of my father’s watercolor paintings hanging on my bedroom wall, I see my father’s passion and creativity. This is a positive message for me on the daily. My mother-in-law’s two paintings are now hung on either side of Dad’s watercolor, and between the three framed images, I have a continual affirmation of the creative soul — something I know and value immensely.

My husband and I inherited some valuable artwork from his parents who’ve now passed. We’re going to sell it because to us those pieces aren’t what we’re dying to see on our walls. Instead, we like our parents’ artwork which holds significance on many levels.

Then there’s the mixing bowl.

Each time I see my grandmother’s glass mixing bowl in my kitchen cabinet, I pay homage to her. I won’t allow anyone to use it but me. I could put it in storage, but that would be a crime to my heart and memory. If I have the bowl in the kitchen where it belongs, I can have a bit of her next to me each time I get ready to bake. I’ll pull out a sturdy Costco stainless steel bowl for mixing up batter, and for a brief second, I notice her bowl sitting there, too.

I take the steel bowl to the counter and commence with my baking, while right next to me is Grandma mixing batter in her bowl, too. We’re making cookies together and all the happiness comes flooding back. This is all because of a cheap, old bowl — not a Picasso — and if the gods of choice made me choose between a Picasso and that bowl, there is no question. I’d choose the bowl.

But I’m not dumb. I’d mix up a batch of cookies and offer them to the gods in exchange for the Picasso. My cookies — Grandma’s recipe — are a culinary relic of the highest art.

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Hope you're well, friends.