TEA FROM A BONE CHINA CUP
By Beth Clark
Although rural
states share many common characteristics, there is something uniquely
charming about the state of Maine. Recently, on a beautiful fall day, one of
the finest that Maine has to offer, I took the opportunity to wash my
windows. As I worked, I could hear the sounds of talk and laughter from
three houses down the road. The sounds came from an old-fashioned roofing
bee. A group of men had come to reshingle the roof for a ninety-one-year-old
woman who lives there, alone. Four men worked on either side of the roof,
while others worked on the ground The roof was finished in a day, and it was
clear that all benefited from the camaraderie. The sounds of good-natured
bantering wafted through my windows with the warm September breeze, and it
brought a sense of security that is difficult to connect with in today’s
troubled world. It was reassuring to see that people could still work
together and reach out to help an elder in need.
I met the owner of
the house at a tea held by Hilda, another neighbor who lives across the
street. I had received a simple invitation, just “cake tea at 1:00 on
Saturday afternoon,” with a quotation from Emily Dickinson. On the outside
of the envelope was written the word “hats.” I don’t wear a hat, even in
winter. I put on a comfortable skirt, and hatless, carried my blueberry cake
on a disposable plastic plate, arriving fashionably late. Immediately, I
realized my mistake. In front of me were twenty hats, all carefully
decorated with feathers, scarves, ribbons, and jewelry. The outdoor table
was set with bone china. I mumbled something about going home to find a hat
and a better plate for the cake, but these were graciously provided by the
hostess, and I sat down with my bone china cup of green tea.
I would estimate
that at least half of the women at the tea were well into their eighties and
perhaps some in their nineties. Age inhibited neither their appetites nor
the conversation. Good-natured teasing, laughter, and reminiscences kept my
attention darting from one woman to the next. I was content to watch these
treasures as I savored the deserts. There was rum cake, as well as
blackberry, red and black velvet, and my own blueberry cake. Most of the
women chose to try a piece of each. Thin ribbons stuck out of the black
velvet cake, each attached to a charm. Each woman was asked to tell a story
related to the charm she had picked. Mine was an engagement ring, and I told
how my husband had proposed to me thirty years before. The woman next to me
began to cry. I can only guess at her sorrow. I was told that she had
experienced a difficult year. I was glad that she was there among the
support of caring friends.
Hilda’s daughters
had hung quilts that she had made on the wall of the garage, which added a
charming backdrop to our tea. One had delicate appliqué representing the
state of Maine. There were lady slippers, chickadees, pinecones, and lilacs.
Others had intricate patchwork designs. Most had been quilted by hand in the
days before machine quilting became fashionable. Hilda no longer does
quilting, but she entertains the historical society and keeps its records.
In the course of
the tea-time conversation, women who had known each other for years learned
new insights. Two women had not known that they were born in the same town
hundreds of miles away. I was told the story of how Cliff, the man who lived
next door, had come and crashed one of the parties wearing a dress and
woman’s wig. Larry, the new neighbor, was told that he could come if he
followed Cliff’s suit. Larry declined. I was glad, because adding a man to
the mix might have changed the dynamics. When the women got up to leave, I
was struck by their infirmity. Those who had seemed so vibrant when seated
now needed canes, and walkers, and the assistance of a strong arm as they
hobbled to their cars.
I commented to my
neighbor that I heard that she and Ida played scrabble every week. She
corrected me with good humor, “No, dear. We play scrabble every day,
five days a week!” One player is eighty-seven and the other ninety-one. It
was clear that their competition is fierce.
In a small rural
community, people know a lot about what is going on in the town. This summer
my husband and I were working in our vegetable garden and discovered a moose
track that looked quite fresh. Later that day we took a load of trash to the
dump. My husband often chats with the attendant, and so he greeted him with,
“Do you know what was in our garden today?”
“Yes,” the
attendant replied, “a moose, and he went through your garden about 7:10 this
morning.” A neighbor had been to the dump earlier that day and had relayed
the story of how that same moose had walked through his yard. Another
time, my husband couldn’t find his glasses when he returned from the dump.
He couldn’t even remember when he had last used them. Later, after the dump
had closed, the glasses were delivered directly to our door. We had lived in
town a little over a year, yet the landfill attendant recognized the owner
and took the time to return them.
We have now lived
in our home for three years, and my neighbors are aging rapidly. One fell in
the bath tub and had to leave her home. Another developed Alzheimer disease
and now lives in a nursing home. These neighbors have seen parts of life
that I have yet to experience, and I feel pressured to learn all I can of
their wisdom, before it is too late. I am glad that I live in rural Maine
where I can get to know my neighbors and share a cup of tea from a bone
china cup. 
