I Can Dish It Out
- Tracy Grathwohl
- 22 hours ago
- 4 min read
Our basement looks like the final scene in “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” where the (found) ark is crated and wheeled into the middle of a government warehouse with stacked crates going on for miles.
In other words, we have a lot of stuff.
This tracks. Mr. Hockey and I have been married for 36 (according to my calculator) years. We’ve had four (no calculator needed) pucks. We’ve lived in seven (according to my fingers) different homes in three (no calculator or fingers needed) countries.
In 2010, we moved back to East Hampton full time. We brought everything we had to our already full, former summer house. Most of it went into the basement, such as the American Girl dolls.
There are enough furnishings for an entire apartment, uncomfortable couch included. The pucks’ old gear could outfit a pee wee hockey team, if not the whole league.
Before we buy a small appliance, we check for a replacement in the basement. Our current microwave is from there.
The basement’s contents aren’t all ours. We’ve let our friends store their things, which they’ve sometimes forgotten about. We never monitored who put what where. We don’t know who owns the (Moroccan? Egyptian?) tabletop. If the owner (our friend whom we don’t recall) is reading this: First, how have you been? Second, can you come get your table? It’s in the back corner, next to a snowball shooter toy.
A third of the basement’s stuff came from our families. We have Mr. Hockey’s grandmother’s china cabinet and vintage golf clubs, tools, and not one, but two desks from my father.
My mother (Helen) would’ve brought more. She had many items she thought were special and wanted me to have. Luckily (for her), she gave me some of it before she died, including a selection of her twelve sets of “good china.”
Helen was an excellent cook and loved to throw dinner parties. She also set a beautiful table. Her mantra was “presentation is everything,” meaning one should own many sets of “good china.”
Helen didn’t believe in less is more. Another mantra was “You can never be too blonde or too rich.”
In Helen’s cooking mind, rich meant plenty of butter. She never understood why my father’s cholesterol was so high.
A few years before she died, Helen asked me which china I’d like. I could choose five, one for each puck and a bonus set for me.
I didn’t want any.
But Helen’s suggestions were, in reality, commands. There was no arguing.
I unenthusiastically chose my childhood favorites, the bird cage set, the hand painted Greek plates, and the Royal Doulton with a (trendy!) soup tureen.
Soon after, I found myself driving five large moving boxes full of dishes from my parents’ home in Richmond to East Hampton. Helen had “suggested” I pick them up. It was only 850 miles. Why should they pay to ship when I had a minivan?
The boxes went straight to the basement.
They remained undisturbed for years, until a recent small flood. Two of Helen’s boxes got wet, and I had to unpack them. I expected to see china. Instead, I got random items, like a comically large brandy snifter, seasons two and three of The Sopranos on VHS, and a Ziploc bag with a couple of (slightly stained, used?) cocktail napkins from my Bat Mitzvah in 1977.
There were dishes, but not what I had chosen. I needed to open the other three boxes.
I made it a game. I rewarded myself by unwrapping four or five items every few days. But only if I had done something constructive, like buy groceries, exercise, or refrain from nagging Mr. Hockey.
I clearly wasn’t constructive enough. It took me two years. Not all my fault – Mr. Hockey doesn’t load the dishwasher efficiently.
When I finished (three weeks ago!), we had seven sets of dishes. Some I’d never seen before like the gold-rimmed dessert plates decorated with menacing gold and black phoenixes, which, in a candlelit room, give off an Eagle’s Nest vibe.
I also found familiar things I’d forgotten. Including the glass plates engraved with HMS, Helen’s initials. Helen would monogram anything. I’m surprised she never tattooed her initials on her butt. Perhaps she didn’t want to be mistaken for a British naval vessel.
I also unpacked pitchers, candle sticks, and platters (some with price tags!). Helen had given me everything I would need to set many beautiful tables at once. She even threw in a (trendy!) punch bowl.
Currently, it’s all sitting on any available flat surface down there. I’m struggling to find places to store it. I need to use our (assembly required) spare shelves and Mr. Hockey’s grandmother’s china cabinet. I could also use the (Moroccan? Egyptian?) tabletop!
I’ll bring what I like upstairs. But we have our own “good china,” which we use maybe twice a year.
Meanwhile, I haven’t been motivated since my unwrapping has wrapped. Why bother to be constructive? Mr. Hockey may never learn to load the dishwasher efficiently.
I won’t “suggest” that the pucks take any of it, but they can have what they want. It isn’t valuable anyway (I know, I’ve Googled.) Our whole house is just a big sentimental inheritance. If I don’t start clearing it out, it’ll be their big sentimental problem.
It’s time to give away whatever I can. It’ll take years.
I sure hope there’s nothing in the attic.
Published in The East Hampton Press on December 11, 2025.
Photos by ME!!!