As the littlest, it was my job to set the table. Since we never had matching dishes or silverware. I put a lot of thought into the choices for each place setting. The plates were mostly basic Corel ware, white with a blue or beige decorative circle mainly.

But the silverware grabbed my attention. Some of the utensils were undecorated, flat sliver top to bottom. Some had lines on the handle, lending an elegance like a stalk of grass to the presentation.

But my favorite were the handles with flowers. A fat puffed up knife handle with knobby flower embellishments, and sometimes a scrolled leaf or bud climbing the stem—these required contemplation and investigation. Should that elaborate spoon be placed next to the plain knife? The fork was all the way on the other side of the plate allowing for a new visual statement.

First pass to set the table was from my gut, making choices for each setting. The plate and its attributes was the center of my choice for cutlery and I made the decision based on who was sitting at that spot. What would best please and suit by father? My mother was a puzzle too.

I would reach the end, and as I added the cups I’d have a chance to consider my selections. Was I fair? Did one person get too many of the most beautiful silverware? I might take a fork and change it out with the one at another setting.

Once, my mother showed me some pieces of silverware she’d inherited from her family. These serving spoons had one set of extruding blossoms on the top side. When turned over, a completely different flower design was visible. I marveled over these special occasion pieces. What gorgeousity, two designs!

Dinner happened every day. Years were spent making these value judgements of which person should have what ration of beauty at the meal.

I cherished the sight, the feel and the expression of each.

I rationed for myself too. had the power, I could have hoarded the most beautiful pieces for myself. No! Don’t be greedy! I would work so that I had the right amount of the pretty ones.

I’m not little anymore, and I look back and realize my family did not love those pieces like I did.

I remember them to this day. If I could, I would go tell myself to hoard the best pieces. I loved them, and I appreciated them like no one else did.

If I see the beauty in something and love it, that is a particular right of ownership. The choice that pulls at me, draws my eye and thrums my heart demands attention. It’s worth securing.