It lives in our front room; a piece of furniture that sits in front of the picture window and holds several orchids on a glass shelf that was made to fit. Inside of it, are some old sets of flannel sheets, duvet covers that are out of style, and other linens that are waiting to be boxed and sent to the needy. Sometimes when my eyes rest upon it, it evokes many memories: of its origins, what it used to contain, and its connections to my childhood.
The chest came to Canada with our family when we emigrated from Holland in the fifties. Family legend has it that it was made by my mother’s father who was a carpenter, when she was just a child, in 1922. She took it with her to her home when she got married and it was used for storage throughout her life.
When I was growing up, the chest resided on
the upstairs landing in the house on 17th
street. Every once in a while, when I was bored on
a rainy Saturday afternoon for example, I would spend time rifling through its
contents. Apart from the stash of extra blankets that were stored in the main
part of the chest, there was a little side compartment on the left, which
contained a variety of interesting objects, and I liked to handle these and
imagine where they came from. There was a pair of silver spurs that had been my
father’s during his stint in the army as a young man. I remember vague stories
about him being on a horse which had allegedly hung itself in the crotch of a
tree(perhaps despondent over the futility of the battle) My father fell off,
which certainly saved him from an untimely death. I’m not sure whether I
concocted that memory while handling and playing with those spurs, but the
clarity of it is as though it truly happened.
There was also an old pair of false teeth
in the chest. I had no idea to whom these had belonged, I never thought to ask,
and I shudder to think how many times I tried them on; always a bit sorry that
they didn’t fit a bit more snugly...
Another item I recall was figurine made of
silver or pewter, of twin greyhound dogs on the run. They had little pegs on
their feet which were meant to fit into a base so they could stand independently.
The whole thing was a bit warped so it no longer stood up properly, which was
probably the reason these poor greyhounds had been sent to live out their lives
in the trunk.
A tiny cut glass perfume bottle with a
tarnished silver flip-up lid also was stored there. It was very pretty, and as an adult I often wished I had it for my own. One day, miraculously, when one of my sisters heard this story, she gifted it to me, saying our mother had given to her, but that she had owned it long enough, and that now it was my turn.
The most powerful memory of this old chest
is the one of seeing my mother kneel before it each evening before bed to say
her nightly prayers. She would first don her long flannel nightgown, then take
her grey hair out of its bun at the back of her neck, and comb its length down
her back and braid it into a simple plait that was more comfortable to sleep
with; then kneel in front of that old chest to pray. This ritual never varied,
no matter what events had occurred that day. She prayed quietly, and for several
minutes, her head bowed, and seemingly turned her days events and problems over
to her Lord. In the morning, she again knelt there, presumably to gain strength
and faith to make it through often trouble-filled days.
When we first acquired the old chest (“de
ouwe kist”)after my mother’s death, my husband lovingly sanded it, oiled it
with several coats of Danish finishing oil, and lined it in cedar. For a short
time, it housed our stereo, it components suspended from a cedar frame he made
for that purpose. After that, on the farm on Okanagan Avenue, it lived, somewhat
neglected for a time in the basement, housing horse blankets, both summer and
winter versions. Then it was moved to the landing upstairs after that area was redecorated,
and in need of some furniture to make it feel homey.
Finally, with the move to this home, it has at last found its deserved place, in the center of our living space. My eyes can rest upon it daily, and remember my mother, whose presence and love, although she has been gone 33 years, still speak to me through that chest with its memories. 
