I like black and white objects. Orange is my favorite color, but I am seduced by the sharpness and simple distinction of black and white objects. I remove the color from photos to see the dramatic change. The dress I wore to my niece’s wedding? A design in black and white accented with silver. Elegance marred only by a slight farmer’s tan. My favorite coffee mugs? A black and white Disney mug reserved for me at my son’s house; at the apartment, a mug of black with white lettering spelling out this slogan: Get Lost Get Found LIFE IS GOOD.
When my Great-Aunt Celeste died, I chose a white pottery pitcher and bowl with black ink-etched birds and flowers to remember her. The pieces sat on the mantel in the farm-house until the bowl was broken beyond the knack of glue by Jacob bouncing up and down on the sofa. I was so angry with that 2-year-old boy for destroying this piece of my heritage. Today, though, if he were to break that bowl, I would shrug it off. Those things that were special to me do not transfer to my children. They have no memory of a 4’11” lady who wore size-four sample shoes and grew flowers for the church altar vases, and I don’t need those objects to remember her.