Spode.

 

Spode.  They are the festival of Christmas.  They are beautiful and fragile and timeless all at the same time.  They are the look of the table, decorated with careful thought.  They are the feeling of tradition, home, on December nights.  They are the treasure that unviels each holiday season, and hide tucked away like advent, awaiting the coming King again amidst the months between.

 

My family holds a tradition of Spode.  My mother gathered it, in pieces and boxes, packing it as her own when her parents were no more.  An heirloom she cherished, a piece of heritage that only Christmas could behold.  We used them each year, covering an evergreen tablecloth with red candles and holly leaves with berries spruced inbetween.  They charmed the Christmas' of years at Homerich, and left comfort in our lives with the roots they grew and the food they served.

 

The Spode wasn't shared after my mom's death, though many of us had heart strings attached.  My brother went and purchased his own set, complete with the evergreen rims and presents around the base.  I waited in coveted longing, the season boldly showing the absence of Spode.

 

As engagement for Mark and I unfolded, Spode began to arrive, wrapped with ribbons as bows.  We agreed to leave it off the registry, yet somehow the sentimentaly of the story was told.  Bread bowls, dinner plates, and tea pots unpacked, each tied with a note from one of Mark's aunts.  The Spode heritage began Smith, but now blurred with Stone, just like the heritage we now vowed to create.

 

This year I thought of the Spode with fondess, then hesitated knowing the hectic holiday that instead was abreast.  No Spode would don the table, no plates would carry family dinner.  Yet I breathed assuredly, knowing the faithfulness that grew below my bossom.  Our children will know the story; our children will carry the heritage of Smith and Stone, sharing Spode dinners and traditions for years to come.  What tangible inheritence of the lives of familys, of generations bearing legacy.  What joy to know that Christmas blessings will, for Stone and Smith, still be served on Spode.