Violets for the Soul

I was walking the dog on a recent afternoon, letting him lead me along familiar paths and neighborhood streets. It was about a week before Easter, a beautiful spring day with nothing really remarkable to report, save for the interesting scents that compelled Jacques to stop and sniff every few steps of the way.

We turned onto a street that he likes to visit in hopes of catching a glimpse of a pretty Cavalier King Charles Spaniel who’s been the object of his affections since a chance meeting on a walk a few years ago. Alas, she wasn’t out, but something new caught Jacques’ attention – and mine.

At the curb several yards away sat a pile of assorted castoff items. A makeshift sign with the words “Please take these” beckoned us to have a closer look. Suddenly my eyes landed on two creamware cachepots with a vintage vibe – in good condition, about 6 inches tall and embellished with vertical lines, leaves and clusters of grapes.

They were there for the taking. My heart leapt. For a self-described “dish-aholic” like me, it was violets for the soul at its finest.

But then a voice in my head reminded me that my cabinets and shelves are already filled to overflowing. “You do not need them,” said the voice. So I dutifully put my little treasures back where I’d found them and steered Jacques onward.

A few steps later, another voice said, “Yes, you most certainly do!”

Hmm. I thought of how nicely the cachepots would coordinate with my collection of blue-and-white porcelains, not to mention some creamware pieces inherited from my Great Aunt Margaret that I’d set out for an Easter display. “It was clearly meant to be,” the other voice argued.

I did an about-face and told Jacques we were heading back.

But by the time it came to the actual act of taking someone’s possessions, and in broad daylight at that, I was feeling a bit embarrassed and hoping the neighbors weren’t watching out their windows. I rationalized that the sign did in fact instruct me to “please take,” so, with a guilty look over my shoulder, I obeyed. Holding a water bottle, a pooper scooper and Jacques’ leash in one hand, I managed to carry the two pots in the other and make it home with both intact.

As I cleaned them up, I envisioned my new finds filled with bright coral pink Gerbera daisies. Soon they found their places on our dining room buffet alongside Aunt Margaret’s cream Lenox vase, two cream leaf-shaped candy dishes and three footed cracked-egg vases from Germany and Japan. It seemed a fitting tribute to my mother’s beloved aunt, a woman ahead of her time and a true steel magnolia.

What a coincidence that an impromptu encounter of one person’s discards would result in just the complement to the pieces she lovingly set aside for me decades ago. I gave thanks for all Aunt Margaret – wise, kind and the epitome of Southern grace – had meant to me and our family.

Now that Easter is over, Aunt Margaret’s creamware and egg vases have been carefully tucked away. The daisies are providing color in pots outside, but the cachepots remain on display, showing off a couple of zebra plants with their dark, dramatic, striped foliage. Next to them I’ve set out Grandmother’s glass candelabra, with melted down ivory candles reminding us of lingering conversations over dinners past.

Something tells me I’ll reach for my scavenged finds often as the versatile fixtures of tablescapes to come. They go with virtually everything, even cherished heirlooms. And while there are no markings on the cachepots to indicate their provenance, I love them nonetheless. It matters not to me whether they came from a thrift store or were passed down through generations – or, for that matter, that I found them on the street. They bring me joy.

It occurs to me that maybe I should start carrying a tote bag on future walks with Jacques. You never know where violets for the soul might turn up.