I’m writing again about some of Mom’s things. Here are some pieces I found stored in Mom’s attic.
They were wrapped in old newspaper and labeled “From Pluma.” I don’t know a lot about the actual pieces. I don’t remember them being displayed in our house. There was one more, but it was broken and the piece was missing. I don’t know the original story of these glass pieces, but I remember Aunt Pluma.
Pluma was the oldest of my mom’s 10 siblings. She was already married and a mother by the time my mom was born. My mom was almost like a second daughter.
I visited Aunt Pluma many summers when I was growing up. My cousin and I would always stay together at Aunt Pluma’s house. We would sleep in one single bed and stay awake late talking. We even claimed to have the same dream one night, and Aunt Pluma did not say one word that gave any clue she doubted us. I am pretty sure we invented the story of each dreaming we had pet turtles we took for walks together on leashes…
Aunt Pluma’s house was on the corner and the side yard was a hill. We would lay at the top and roll ourselves down the hill. We would be dizzy and wobble as we stood to run back up the hill and roll down again. In the hallway of Aunt Pluma’s house, there was a grate that covered the vent from the furnace that was almost as wide as the hall. I would walk gingerly along the narrow strip of wood floor on one side or the other. I was afraid of walking on it, convinced I could fall through to the basement. I don’t know why, when neither Aunt Pluma nor my cousin hesitated to walk on it. I was also afraid of walking down the stairs to the basement, although my cousin and I played down there often.
As she got older, Aunt Pluma’s eyesight began to fail. She took it in stride and faced it with a sense of humor. One of her favorite stories was of the time she got buttermilk instead of milk because she didn’t realize the color of the carton had changed. Since she cooked without measuring, just adding ingredients by feel, she only discovered her mistake when she poured it into a cake she was making. She went right ahead and baked it. No one noticed any difference, she said.
Aunt Pluma sufffered many strokes and had dementia in her final years. She didn’t always recognize people, even family, who went to visit her. But she always recognized my mom.
I think that is why Mom still had this blue glass.