By Kathy Hughes
Contributing writer
Since I moved into a one-bedroom apartment from a two-bedroom condo, it seems there is never a good place to put things, especially all those “chotchkas” which demand to be displayed, and not stored in a closet.
Just a comment about “chotchkas,” which the dictionary defines as a “cheap, showy trinket.” Well, that is insulting; similar terms such as “whatnots,” “bric-a-brac,” “knickknacks,” have similar definitions as objects of no great value. Well, not in my family!
Moving or downsizing presents a giant dilemma when it comes to treasures; to me, they are my heirlooms. I can’t, and I mean I absolutely cannot, part with them, even by selling them, giving or donating them, except to someone along the chain of inheritance. The cash value will never equal the actual value of either the object, or its sentimental worth.
So it happened that when I moved, I rented a storage unit as the solution to my impossible choices. Some keepsakes are even too delicate to display (remember, I have a cat). Lest you think I am exaggerating, she broke an antique plate worth several hundred dollars which was stored on a high shelf.
Needless to say, it is ridiculous to keep one’s best objects stored away out of sight where no one can appreciate them, not even the owner. I cringe when people say, “If you haven’t used it in five years, throw it away” — my best possessions have been put into storage.
That is, until now. I have moved out of the storage unit after five years of paying rent to store my belongings. It has been at once a joy and a powerfully nostalgic experience unpacking them.
Among the first items I unpacked was a bluish green, round, glass wine bottle, known as a demijohn jar. Some similar ones on Ebay were quite valuable, others were not, but the value of this bottle is in its story, not its physical properties, although I know it to be over 60 years old.
In October, 1954, I was eight years old and living with my family in northern Virginia when I experienced my first hurricane. We lived near the Potomac River, which is bordered by a serene, tree shaded parkway that leads to Mount Vernon from the City of Alexandria — a deep water port for small to medium seagoing vessels.
The storm was Hurricane Hazel, a Category 4 hurricane with winds over 130 mph. It ripped up the east coast of the United States, and held, for many years, the record as the costliest and deadliest storm to course this region.
Once the storm had passed my father suggested that we take a drive in our new Chevy Bel Air to witness the damage. Much to my horror, he chose to drive down the Mt Vernon Parkway along the river. The river had flooded to where the water came up over the running boards, and I began to cry for my father to turn back.
Instead, he found a place to pull over near the picnic grounds very familiar to us. However, it was now unrecognizable, with overturned tables, tree limbs and debris everywhere. My mother, ever the forager, was the only one to leave the car, hoping to find a piece of driftwood. What was she thinking? What were we to do with a soaking, dirty piece of wood, too big to fit into the car? We didn’t know what to think when we heard her cry of discovery.
Amid the wet branches and trash, she held up a bottle clad in sopping, disintegrating straw. It was a demijohn jar, washed up by the river from one of the ships, we imagined. The basket encasing it was ruined, but the bottle was intact.
Once cleaned up, the hand-blown glass was very pretty, with air bubbles enhancing its shine. For the rest of our years, the “Hazel jar” stood by the fireplace, usually holding some dried, tall grasses. Mom always hoped to find some cattails to adorn it, but I thought it was nice just as it was. And it still is.
