Stories are sticky.
A story is stuck on my mother's chandelier.
She purchased the glittery
crystal when I was in college. She flipped the inaugural switch during a Xmas party. The family
oooohed and
ahhhed to see the light dance through hundreds of pieces of cut glass. I remember the
ohhs and
ahhs...but I also remember the sharp pain in my heart that evening.
My mother loved to shop at Marshall Fields during the holidays. The venerable Marshall Fields was an icon of sophistication and wealth in downtown Chicago. Tasteful wreaths and decorated Christmas trees filled every niche of the store. As you walked down the aisles, the delicate yet earthy smell of new leather gloves and wallets mixed with woodsy perfumes stacked on the glass counters. My mother looked like she was born to stroll in this store....always wearing a tailored suit with high heels...her soft brown beaver jacket
nonchalantly draped over her hand. Her purse always matched her shoes.
As a child, I was dressed like a princess when I went shopping with her. I wore dresses with bow tie backs and white
lacy ankles which showed off my black patent leather shoes. I can still remember the sound of my little heels clicking on the marble floors. Sometimes when she stalled at a counter, I would rub my heel onto the floor etching a temporary letter or black mark on the smooth surface. She never scolded me for elfish behavior....since that would draw attention to the fact that I wasn't perfect.
The year the chandelier arrived I was a sophomore in college. My mother insisted we go shopping downtown. Like other twenty year old college girls at the time, I wore flannel shirts with jeans and scruffy shoes. A big sweatshirt substituted for a coat or jacket. A purse was lame so I stuffed my pant pockets with the few essentials I needed.
I didn't dress this way to inflame my mother....flannels and jeans were simply the uniform of the times. When I slid into the
passenger seat of the car, my mother looked at me and hissed. In every stage of my life, my mother was dissatisfied with me. I knew my casual outfit was not the correct visual counterpoint she wanted to her expensive classic suit but I really didn't own anything she would consider acceptable.
We rode in silence to Fields and parked the car in the dimly lit garage she favored. As we headed into the store, I saw her brace her shoulders as if to prepare herself for the disapproving looks of her well-dressed sisters when they spotted me next to her. She would not be pitied.
I strolled behind her and watched her shop....buying nylons for herself....checking out new handbags and then, as usual, she would spy the stand with the heavy duty string handled Marshall Field's shopping bags. She would insert two pennies into the metal coin box which requested 25 cents per bag and take three bags........two for purchases and one "just in case" which she folded and stored in one of the bags.
She loved
Estee Lauder colognes and powders and I could sense her excitement as we reached the cosmetic counters. She dabbed samples on her wrist and questioned the saleslady about face creams. Finally, she looked over at me.
"Why don't you pick out some lipstick."
I smiled and shrugged, " I don't wear lipstick."
She frowned.
"Then pick out some nail polish." I pulled my hands out from the pockets of my puffy down vest and showed them to her. "I don't wear nail polish."
She turned and faced me.
Her anger radiated through her suit.
"No man is ever going to love you or want to marry you."
She wagged her finger at me.
"You're just plain."
The clerks, the customers, everyone turned around and stared at me. My mother turned back to the counter.
I had this surreal feeling.... like a brilliant white spotlight was shining down on me. A part of me wanted to address the crowd....as if I was a actress explaining the character she was locked into..... "Look everyone....here I am....the plain girl.....the
unlovable young woman but underneath I'm wonderful.... interesting ...full of potential"......but nothing came out of my mouth.....and everyone returned to their business. The light faded and I pretended to be drawn to some amazing potion on the next counter.
I don't remember the rest of the afternoon. I don't remember if we talked or when we got home or what I did. I do remember sitting under the glittery chandelier eating dinner and wondering if my mother had cursed me. Would I, the plain woman, ever love or marry?
But I was not cursed.
I brought to her home a man or two....eventually a husband.....and then children.
But even with a ring on my finger and grandchildren running in her house, she would take me into the dining room and point to the shimmering crystal fixture. "When I die, I want you to take this chandelier and put it in your dining room." Some years I'd chuckle ...other years I'd hurt inside....my mother still thought I was plain.
So when she died, I took the chandelier down and wrapped it in a soft Alpaca fur rug she had and tied it together with a sturdy rope. I put the fixture behind my living room couch for six months. I didn't think much about it....occasionally I cringed when I thought of the ornate gold fixture mixing with my
eclectic dining room....but I felt compelled to grant her this wish.
Two weeks ago, I announced to my hub it was time.
I cleared the dining room of the boxes and placed the furry bundle on the dining room table. Of course, the fixture proved to be difficult....misaligned...not fitting the brace....and each time I held the light up for my husband to make an adjustment, crystals would rain down on my head.
Finally it was up.....I flipped the
switch for a few seconds to see if the lights worked then flipped the switch off. A few days later, when the house was empty, I set up shop on my dining room table. I switched out the light bulbs to bulbs with less watts. I wiped off smudges on hundreds of crystals and methodically rehung them. I bought silk lamp shades to soften the stark
candelabra.
When I finished working on the fixture, I turned it on for a few minutes and studied it.
I felt nothing.
Each evening before I went to bed, I would go into the dining room and flip the lights on.
I learned the exact position on the dimmer where the crystals turned to fiery prisms.
Still I had no opinion till last night. I stood in my jammies in the dining room and slid the dimmer to it's prism moment and smiled.
It was beautiful. Stunning. Odd. Incongruent with the rest of the decor and I loved it..... because deep in my soul...I knew I didn't need it. There was no plain jane to conquer, no glitter deficeit.
There is love based on need and there is loved based on choice.
It was my choice to love this sparkly funky fixture. It is pretty and that's all there is to it.
And I forgive my mother....for the insecurities she wanted to instill in me....and the hopes she harbored for a different type of daughter.
It is my mother's chandelier....but it is my house.
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What's more scary?
