In March, on the third anniversary of C's passing, instead of making my usual pilgrimage to HoneyCreek, I decided to tackle several unfinished projects he had left behind. There were three family heirlooms that had been collecting dust in the garage for years. Each held sentimental value and each needed repair/refinishing and replacement parts to be functional once more.
I started with the easiest of the three: the lamp.
Calling it a lamp was generous. It was actually an antique pitcher with an ancient light socket embedded in a plaster-of-Paris base and a frayed wire dangling awkwardly from the side. The wiring looked like a fire hazard, and the whole conversion appeared to have been done sometime in the 1930s. I was afraid to plug it in just to see if it worked.
For years, C lamented that his parents had ruined a perfectly beautiful antique pitcher by unsuccessfully turning it into a lamp. I never cared much for it myself—it was tacky and ugly—but after twenty years in the garage, it was time to make a decision. Either I was going to throw it away, or I was finally going to make it into something worth keeping.
I took the scrawny little "lamp" to a lady electrician in Decatur to see if she could help. She took one look at it and, suppressing a laugh, told me she could absolutely get it working. We both laughed, actually. A few weeks later, I picked up the newly rewired, fully functioning lamp, chose a lampshade, brought it home, and put it next to the bed in the guest room. It is so sweet! I never expected to love it, but I do. Every time I pass the guest room and glance over at the lamp, I think of C and his parents. I know C would be very pleased with how it turned out, too.
The other projects in the garage were a pair of tables that had been previously stored in the barn behind C's parents' home in Vine Grove, Kentucky. They might be a hundred years old by now? Each needed repair/refinishing and a new tabletop. I must have called every furniture refinishing shop in Atlanta, and every estimate was prohibitively expensive. I really wanted to save them because they were the last two things rescued the night the barn burned down. I was about to give up when my granddaughter recommended a friend who lives and works in south Georgia. She thought he might be willing to take on the project.
The tables are in his capable hands now. As I write this, he and I have already worked through several design decisions together. He has found beautifully aged chestnut for the new tops and expects to deliver them next week. I can't wait to see them—and to know that the last two pieces C wanted to preserve from his family's history will finally have a place in our home.
Restoring them has been a bittersweet journey, but it has also been a meaningful way to honor those who came before me and cherished the tables and the lamp formerly known as a pitcher. In preserving them, I hope I have done my part to keep their stories alive for our grandchildren. I want them to know where these treasured pieces came from and to understand that they embody the craftsmanship, care, and enduring legacy of the hands that created them. My hope is that, as they become part of future family gatherings, they will continue to connect each new generation to those who came before.
