In 1949 my parents made the big move from Rockford, Illinois, to Southern California, along with three very tiny children and all their household possessions. My mother had carefully wrapped and packed many precious f***ly heirlooms, including four cartons of her mother’s hand-painted dinner china. Grandmother had painted this lovely set herself, choosing a forget-me-not pattern.
Unfortunately, something happened during the move. One box of the china didn’t make it. It never arrived at our new house. So my mother had only three-quarters of the set—she had plates of different sizes and some serving pieces, but missing were the cups and saucers and the bowls. Often at f***ly gatherings or when we would all sit down for a Thanksgiving or Christmas dinner, my mother would say something about the missing china and how she wished it had survived the trip.