Story by Bob Church


            
The Lessons Of A Ladle


            




            The ladle isn't pure silver, certainly, and may not be silver
            at all. Like as not, it's some lesser alloy of tin, forged in
            the 1850's or thereabout, close as anyone can remember, but it's
            silver in color at least. It doesn't matter, though. It manages
            to stay pretty clean, since I use it only occasionally, to dip
            water from a bucket when I get nostalgic for the old days. I
            rather enjoy the slight metallic taste it leaves in my mouth
            after I drink from it. It's not a good taste or a bad taste,
            it's just… there. Besides, it doesn't last long, and I don't
            stand there like a ninny thinking about it, but it's there, nevertheless,
            and worth pointing out.

            


            I think we tend to do that when we get older. All the little
            things mean more since we understand that there's a certain finite
            quality associated with mundane events. Focus becomes centered
            upon the immediate rather than the far-reaching, and attention
            to detail reigns supreme. I think the kids would call that micro-management
            or microeconomics or some such micro-gobbledygook. It doesn't
            matter what you call it, it's the recognition that's important.

            


            Anyway, back to the ladle. This particular artifact is no ordinary
            hunk of metal. Countless sets of lips have enjoyed a cool drink
            of water while resting on one or another spot around the rim.
            Apparently, it's home-made. The designer was careful to round
            the lip, curving it under around the outside, ensuring that the
            baby or drunk grandpa didn't cut himself.

            


            Plus, the metal yields to temperature. When dipped into a bucket
            of ice-cold spring water, it makes sure you pay attention and
            don't drink too fast. This sort of thoughtfulness is rare among
            inanimate objects and should, rightfully, be acknowledged.

            


            Even the handle is accommodating. Whoever pounded out the metal
            could have left it flat and sharp, and in all likelihood, no
            one would have complained. After all, it's only a way to grasp
            the ladle, so why worry about how it's shaped? I'll tell you
            why. It's because his granny, mama, daughter or granddaughter
            might have grabbed that handle, and he wanted to make sure it
            would be safe and easy to use. That's why it's concave, too,
            providing a spot to rest your thumb on top while dipping or drinking
            since the ladle itself can be a little unwieldy if filled too
            full or if hands are very small.

            


            I came upon the ladle by way of inheritance. When grandma died,
            I was told that I could have my choice of anything on the porch
            by way of remembrance. We were all down at the farm, and the
            funeral was tomorrow. By the time a small boy got his turn to
            pick, all the pictures, antiques and ice cream churns had pretty
            much been spoken for, but I didn't care; honestly, I took no
            interest in any of them, anyway. As soon as I saw that ladle
            hanging on the wall, on the same nail it had always hung on,
            I knew it was what I wanted. My only regret is that I couldn't
            take the porch and nail along with it. Images of Dad and Grandpa
            sneaking out onto the porch rushed into my head, as Grandpa hurriedly
            grabbed his bottle of 'corn-squeezins' from under a slat on the
            far side of the porch. I can still see his grin as he poured
            and offered Dad that ladle. They each shared a couple of sips,
            alternating until it was empty, then Grandpa would stare into
            it before swirling it in the air and shaking it to remove any
            evidence that may have inadvertently been missed. Then, he'd
            reverentially hang it on the hook before heading back into the
            house. They couldn't stay long or they'd lose their stealth capabilities
            and be picked up as a heat signature on Mom or Grandma's radar.

            


            Of course, I can't prove it, but Grandpa told me stories handed
            down from his grandfather about Robert E. Lee himself drinking
            from that very ladle. It was during the early years of the Northern
            Aggression, and the intrepid general had bivouacked his troops
            in the woods adjoining the property. It was not an altogether
            wise move, Grandpa said, because our part of Missouri bordered
            Kentucky, and everyone knew those ridge-runners to be a treacherous
            lot; as many cow-towed to the Union as were loyal to Jeff Davis.

            


            Even the cup has a personality all its own. The years have yielded
            a few bumps and dings and the outside feels rough and pitted,
            but the inner surface is smooth and glassy as a baby's behind
            with only a tinge of white discoloration in a semi-circle along
            the section opposite the handle. I suspect it may be calcium
            left when water evaporated while it hung. If I was to compare
            it to humans, I would say it takes on the appearance of age spots;
            and as I look at it, I only wish I could age so gracefully.

            


            Yea, it's just a ladle. There's no precision machining or coat-of-arms,
            not a trace of pretense. It contains nothing of intrinsic value
            to anyone but me and that alone makes it precious. For now, it
            goes back on the hook, waiting patiently to be of service. Remember,
            it's not silver... it's pure gold. Someday, I hope my grandson
            will understand.

            
 

            
Bob Church © 2008

            
 

            
Bob Church resides in mid-Missouri
            with his wife of three decades, Louise, their poodle, Carla,
            and their cat, Callie. After thirty years spent raising five
            children, he has reached the point in his life that allows time
            to pursue his real love, writing. You can find more of his stories/observations
            at notquiteright/