Keep Or Toss?

Or donate?  These are the questions haunting the SJG.  In the way way back of the condo wet bar (and by wet bar, I mean a wasted space with a sink, ancient bottles of strangely-colored liquor and fancy-schmancy glasses no one has sipped from in twenty years, at least) I find a large antique glass bowl with a tarnished brass top. "What the hell is this?" I ask no one.  No one answers, thank God.  I look at this giant bowl and ponder its purpose in life. I haven't seen it in 40 years, maybe more.  Is it a punch bowl?  An ice bucket?  What?

And then it comes to me, a vision of hard candies, each one an invitation to destroy one or more of my boy-repelling braces.  I see little SJG fingers digging around for a butterscotch treat that will soon get stuck in one of the few molars the people in charge of my mouth haven't surgically removed.  Dear God in heaven, I've found the candy bowl of my youth.  It's a bittersweet reunion, a bit one-sided, but I'm so happy to see it I give it a hug.  "Hello, candy bowl.  Why are you empty?"

And then it comes to me, the guilt, the overwhelming sentiment that this precious thing in my hands once mattered.  "What the hell am I supposed to do with you, candy bowl?" I ask no one.  No one answers, thank God.  The answer must come from within.  Once again, I'm faced with an agonizing decision.  Do I bring it home?  Do I donate it?  Do I send it off to the big tchotchke warehouse in the sky?  Well, actually, the trash bin in the condo garage?  I only toss the broken stuff, the stuff with cracks, the grimy stuff with a scary layer of who-knows-what.  So now I inspect the bowl for damage, the tell-tale signs of thick yellow glue carefully applied decades ago by my father.  I can't tell you how many of these Daddy-fixed keepsakes have disintegrated in my bruised hands as I've removed them from their odd hiding places.

I stare at the bowl and conclude, happily, that's it good to go to Goodwill.  A few hours later, I drive up, my car full of china and crystal and tea cups I've taken great care to wrap. I ask the nice man at Goodwill to help me shlep these boxes inside. I save the bowl for last.  I like a big reveal.  I bring it inside, remove the protective bath towel, and set it on the counter.  The lady behind the desk smiles with wonder. "Oh, my goodness, that is so lovely. I've never seen anything like it." "It makes me sad to let it go."  "We'll find it a good home." "That would mean so much." "Here's your receipt." "Thank you." "Have a blessed day."  "Okay.  You, too."