If you have heard a wonderful story or told one, if you located a resource that you think would be helpful to others, if you handled a situation with your loved one in a way that others could benefit from hearing, if you developed a system for dispersing possessions or capturing memories that would be helpful to others, please share these with us so we can post them on this page.
My father was a caterer so our car always smelled of pickle brine from spilled deliveries. A catering job was a family affair. Chores had their own hierarchy and one progressed according to age and gender. As the younger of the two children-and a girl-my earliest memories are of clean up. In fact most of my memories were of clean up.
But there was a progression-a marking of maturity in this system. I remember the first time my father trusted me to hold the silver tray while he took yellow cellophane, covered it then curled and tucked the cellophane into a ball- that magically stayed tight. Then we rotated the tray and a stayed still while he did his magic with the other side. I was five and very proud of myself.
The next task gave me less pride. At seven I was allowed to peel the potatoes for potato salad. I remember the huge pot of potatoes still steaming from boiling. I remember thinking that I would be before that pot forever.
The next task that I graduated to - but never from - was the making of tea sandwiches. My particular horror was anchovy and pimento. Reaching into the tin of oily anchovies, laying a strip on the bread, then reaching into the pile of briny sliced pimentos for the pimento strip over and over. One Christmas season I made 600 anchovy and pimento tea sandwiches. But I never cut the crust off the sandwiches. I never cut the squares of white bread slices into triangles. I never got to use the knife. That privilege belonged only to my father and my elder brother.
The knife. It was one of those old huge carving/utility knives, stained but for the edge that my father always and constantly sharpened. I may have been four the first time I, hidden from the eyes of my family, tried to lift it. It took both hands.
I measured myself by that knife. I waited until the day my father would give me a task with that knife. First I held it with two hands, then one hand. I grew and waited. Occasionally my mother would catch me and snap at me, sure that I would lose a finger or an eye, as though merely making contact with it could cause damage. My father used that knife so fluidly. He cut carrots and celery and potatoes at so great a speed he seemed to blur as I watched.
My brother graduated to crust removal. He was never promoted to making triangles because he was too sloppy. I waited. I grew. Use of the chef's knife was to be my entry into adulthood. My own personal bat mitzvah. But my father never asked me.
Years later he changed careers. He retired eventually. I remember seeing the knife last in New York, but I cannot believe it did not move to Florida with him. Yet when he died I could not find it. Somewhere it had been lost. I have many things from my parents, dishes, crystal. But every time I make a large dinner, or carve a turkey I remember that knife. I would trade all the crystal and the jewelry just to have it again.
Every move is unique and provides opportunities for those who wish to grow and learn. The authors would love to hear from you if you have been through a move or facilitated one and have something to share.