The Precious Opal

Abstract

The Precious Opal by Carole Bellacera It's just a simple ironstone bowl, somewhat clumsily painted in wispy green flowers as if a rather inept artist had decided to try his hand at Oriental airbrush. Yet, every time I glance at this little serving dish, I feel a warm rush of love, for it was given to me by a very special person. My grandmother. Her name is Opal B. Foley Owens, but I don't remember ever calling her anything but Mother. A natural parrot, I followed in the lead of my mother, aunt and uncles, and eventually, the other grandchildren followed suit. The name "Mother" stuck. When I was old enough to understand that she had another name, I realized that Opal was perfect for her. In so many ways, she's like that multifaceted stone, with many different shades and changing hues. We don't live close, and I don't get to see her as often as I'd like, but she is with me in my home. When I get out the little green serving dish she gave me, it transports me back to her sparkling white kitchen in Kentucky. Suddenly, I can see the burnished wood-paneled walls and cabinets, the shiny copper gelatin molds displayed above the stove and the freshly-starched poppy curtains hanging at the window over the sink. I can imagine standing at the window and looking out upon my grandfather hunched over his tomato plants, doing whatever is supposed to be done to enrich their health. If I try hard enough, I can almost smell the delicious aromas that always seem to waft throughout Mother's kitchen, for it's a very rare moment that there isn't some delectable concoction simmering on the stove. Back in my own home, thousands of miles away from the misty green hills of Kentucky, I begin to water my plants. 56 And there she is again. It's the little jade plant that brought her to mind. She gave me the clippings from her plant one morning right before we left for home. "Here, Carole Ann," she said with her usual sweet smile. (She's the only one that can call me Carole Ann without making me feel reprimanded.) "It loves the sun, so put it somewhere bright." I did as she advised. But in my home, the jade plant doesn't seem as happy to me. Perhaps it's just my imagination . . . yet, wouldn't any plant be perkier in the cheerful ambiance of Mother's kitchen? When I was a child, she was one of my favorite playmates. My sister Kathy and I would spend a week with her in Kentucky every summer. Our favorite game was playing with mud-pies. Every year we opened our very own outdoor restaurant under the big oak tree in the backyard. Mother was a frequent guest at the rickety old table under the sundappled leaves, and she never tired of the monotonous game. "Why, girls, this sponge cake is just about the best I've ever tasted. Much better than mine." We would beam and bring out another "delicacy." One afternoon a sudden thunderstorm ended our fun, and depressed , we sat at the kitchen table, listening to the drumming of rain on the roof and flinching at the electric flashes of lightning. Once again Mother came to the rescue. "Let's make cookies!" There were no chocolate chips in the house so Mother substituted "M&Ms." After our first bite, Kathy and I were in rapturous heaven. As far as we were concerned, Mother was a genius! Although she was kind and gentle, that didn't mean she couldn't be firm on occasion. When I was about four years old, she caught me drinking out of the cat's bowl. In no uncertain terms I was made to understand that sharing a bowl with a cat was simply unacceptable behavior. A few years later on an exceptionally warm day in March, Kathy and I decided to take our Barbie dolls for a swim. Their "pool" was an old bucket filled with rainwater in the backyard. When we were through, there was more water on...