The Teapot Incident

 

 

A couple of months ago, a shelf containing a small collection of teapots I had suddenly came off the wall, sending almost all of the teapots crashing to the floor.

I was there when it happened. In fact, I’d just left the kitchen seconds before the teapots smashed onto the kitchen floor.

I’ve never actually collected teapots, per se, but over the years various people have given them to me, knowing I am an avid tea drinker.

In addition, one was a teapot that had been my mother’s only one. The ledge inside that the lid sat on was chipped, so I no longer used it. I didn’t want the teapot or the lid to break because the lid fell into the pot.

Not all of the pots smashed. One actually remained on the shelf, which fell to the countertop below. That one was undamaged. Another somehow survived the crash, but its lid was in so many tiny pieces, it couldn’t be salvaged, even for show. And the lid of my mother’s pot and that of another, smaller teapot survived, although neither pot survived.

I was devastated. In the immediate crash and its aftermath, I screamed and even briefly cried.

But I didn’t have time to grieve over china and porcelain. I had to go to a volunteer job shortly afterwards, and my husband cleaned up the damage.

When I came home, all of the pieces that weren’t dust were in a cardboard box in the kitchen, and my husband was online trying to replace a couple of the teapots. He found one that looked like my mother’s, and ordered it. He also found one that had a candy-cane-looking handle, exactly like one that had broken.

For several days afterwards, I carefully pieced some of the pots together and glued them, knowing I’d never be able to use them again, but I could at least have them for show. Unfortunately, none of the ones I pieced together were whole. One was missing about a third of its side, so as long as it’s carefully facing its good side out, no one would know.

Some of the ones I tried to glue had parts move just enough to make other pieces not fit.

Eventually, I grew tired of trying to fix the teapots into a semblance of their former selves, and resigned myself to losing a part of my past.

The teapot that was supposed to look like my mother’s had subtle differences that no one but me would notice. But glaringly obvious was that it wasn’t the right shade of blue. Still, it was beautiful, and I actually liked it better. I may have lost my mother’s teapot, but now I had one I could start new memories with.

The candy-cane teapot was exactly like the one I’d lost. And a few days later I found another of the pots that had been broken, a wedding gift, actually, and ordered a replacement.

The lid of my mother’s teapot, the only part to survive, exactly fit the other surviving teapot, whose lid was gone. They didn’t match, but at least I’d be able to use it.

One teapot, a Belleek castle, was listed in several online sites, but was out of stock everywhere except one place that was offering it for over $200. Since I’d managed to glue ¾ of it back together, it could at least sit on a shelf. Perhaps someday I’d find it in stock somewhere for a reasonable price.

But the loss of the pots, especially in such a freak accident (the shelf had been attached to the wall for at least 10 years, and there didn’t seem to be any reason for it to fall), made me realize how easily things can be taken away from us. But the memories don’t go with them.

While all of my friends were supportive, offering suggestions and commiseration, what really touched me was one friend who was particularly supportive.

This friend, as a teenager, lost everything he owned but the clothes on his back when his family’s apartment burned down. How much more devastating must that have been? During the teen years, when catastrophes seem so much worse than they might be to an adult, to lose everything – family photos, musical instruments, favorite items – must have been so much more difficult than my shelf of teapots.

He could’ve said, “Come on, Cath, they’re only teapots.” But he didn’t. And that meant a lot.