Does Anyone Care About the Family Silver?

My mom, who lived to be 98, passed away a few months back. As with any respectable Southern lady, she loved silver. Most of her serving pieces were plated, with a few sterling pieces purchased or inherited. These generational, hand-me-down pieces were some of her most treasured belongings, and everyone in her close circle of friends knew how much she adored them. Now I find myself wondering if anyone still wants or cares about the family silver.

I grew up in the quintessential Southern home in Savannah, Tennessee. The dining room sat between the kitchen and laundry room and was off-limits except for special occasions. The silver was stored in one of two handmade cherry cabinets, either on display behind glass or neatly placed in green, felt-lined drawers.

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Between special occasions, the silver would tarnish until our housekeeper polished it to a spectacular glow with a soft cloth, some elbow grease, and Wright’s Silver Cream. Oh, how our Thanksgiving and Christmas tables would shine. As a child, I never appreciated the elegance my mom sought to instill in us, especially her love for a perfect place setting.

My 73-year-old brother and I are the only heirs to her small estate. I’m 64 and a self-proclaimed affectionaldo of the South and all things southern. Until recently, I knew little about silver. Of her six grandchildren, ranging in age from 42 to 22, five are boys, and one is a girl. Their only exposure to silver serving pieces came from their grandmother’s family holidays. 

Please, Take It With You

For about 18 months before her death, every time I came home, Mama begged me to take certain items near and dear to her, namely the eight silver water goblets, the prayer bench in the living room, and some family collectibles. “Please take whatever you can or want,” she strongly suggested. “It’s important to me that these items stay in the family.” 

“Mama, I don’t have room in the car and I can’t use it now,” I replied in my hurried fashion. “Besides, we’ll divide everything up when Jesus calls you home.” I have no idea whether she pleaded the same case with my brother. I suspect not.

She knew something that I didn’t. My brother was the estate executor. I knew so and thought nothing of it. After all, we got along well. What in the world could go awry? Neither of us had room for additional furniture or “knicknacks.” Outside of the silver, only a handful of household items held any significant monetary value. Many held sentimental value to me.

Nonetheless, I had a grand vision. After Mama’s passing, my brother and I would gather in the dining room soon after her service, drinks in hand, going through the cabinets and drawers and laughing about the stories behind each item. We’d decide who wanted what and what to do with the rest. Looking back, I realize I was very naive.

My good friend Anna Kathryn, also a Southerner (the double name should identify her heritage), reminded me of something her attorney father always said: “You never know someone until you divorce or share an inheritance with them.” I’ve never heard truer words.

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Through the years, Mama verbally nformed her close friend circle and us of her wishes for her heirlooms. Her jewelry, including her wedding ring and band, and a few miscellaneous bracelets, would go to Mary Morgan, the only granddaughter. The desk from our dad’s side, which sat in the den, goes to my brother. The round table that my granddaddy made goes to me. I recall she even mentioned a few items to her nieces. 

To her chagrin, no one wanted the reproduction Victorian furniture in the living room or the portrait of Aunt Ethel. The very last conversation Mama and I had at her home before departing after our last Thanksgiving together occurred around one of the china cabinets. The subject: those damn silver water goblets. She insisted that four go to me and four to my brother. For the one-hundredth time, did I want to take mine then? “No, Mama. Not today.” 

Nothing was said about the sterling candle holders. I didn’t know where they were stored. Buried somewhere beneath a slew of miscellaneous serving platters and trays. Thankfully, she had given me her sterling flatware years before. In fact, it’s what I use every day.

60 Years In a Box

Soon after her death the estate company swept through the house with speed and efficiency. I lived seven hours away and returned the following week to gather some of the personal belongings that I had kept there through the years 

Walking through the front door, reality hit me. Sixty years of possessions tucked away in dozens of drawers and cabinets now lay in cardboard boxes on every floor and in every room in the house. Each box was numbered for the online auction. The scene was sad and overwhelming. Some of her neighbors and friends dropped in to see me. Most teared up upon seeing her possessions reduced to small piles. I could read their minds. Miss Bettye would be so upset. She certainly would!

If you haven’t noticed, I’m the sentimental one. I’ve always attached memories to stuff, regardless of the value. That’s why I have a hard time throwing caps and logo t-shirts away. There’s always a story or experience associated with them. 

I wanted the analog clock in the kitchen. It was the first thing you would see when entering from the hall. I wanted the chipped, wooden lazy susan that sat in the middle of the kitchen table. I wanted the picture of the old man saying grace over his bread and water. Mama had pleaded with me a month prior to take the prayer bench in the living room. I didn’t. I wanted the ice bucket in the bar with our last name. None of these items were worth much money. But they held a lifetime of memories for me.

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Two neighbors, one a friend of my mom’s for over fifty years, saw my car in the driveway and stopped by. “Paul, did you get the silver goblets?” Miss Lee asked.

“Ah, no. Thanks for reminding me,” I replied. “I know Mama wanted us to divide them.”

“Oh, and where are the silver candle holders? You can’t leave them. I know your mom wanted those to stay with y’all.”

“Yes. Hmmm, where are they?”

The three of us searched through several boxes and found them. I was careful to notate what I took and from what numbered box. I left a list for the estate company so they could remove the items from their website. I had no idea the last time she used the candle holders. I have no idea when I’ll use them. Maybe they’ll come in handy during the next power outage.

Would the Silver Turn Green 

And then the will was opened. Was there any mention of the silver? Nope, not a word. Was there a list of prized possessions to be parcelled out to certain family members? Not to my knowledge. The only thing I held onto was my verbal recollection of certain items that were to go to certain relatives. 

Unfortunately, our wonderful legal system doesn’t recognize “hearsay” over a notarized legal document. The will simply stated that her possessions were to be sold. Did she write this will? It didn’t sound like her, but it was indeed her will, signed in 2023. The same month my brother married his fourth wife, with the pole dancing shoe collection.

The eight water goblets now created a dilemma. The will stated that my brother receives two-thirds of the house and possessions, with one-third going to me. After all, my brother did financially help Mama for several years. Plus, she occasionally reminded me that he expected a return on his investment. Her comments rolled off my shoulders. According to the will’s formula, my brother would get 5.33 goblets, and I’d get 2.67. I’m not sure how that’s supposed to work—maybe he gets six, and I get two. Or can I claim three? Hmmm. 

You’re probably wondering; does your brother or his sons even want any of the silver pieces? After all, he’s getting the lion’s share of the estate. To my knowledge, he never indicated any interest in moms formal china or serving pieces. Would anyone on his side of the family tree host a dinner or holiday function that calls for a silver drinking container outside of a silver-colored solo cup? I don’t think so, but I digress. What he and the new bride want most is the money from them. 

Time and Tarnish

It’s been six months since Mama’s service. What about the silver? Did a stranger purchase it? What about a collector? Are the silver candle holders in a flea market somewhere? No, I have them. In fact, I polished everything today.

I never imagined Mama’s estate (relatively small by many standards) would create a divide between my brother and me. Recalling part of the advice from my friend’s father, “You never know someone until you share an inheritance with them.” I’ve experienced many disappointments in life. The divide with my only living sibling now ranks at the top.

Mama would roll over in her grave if she knew there was a disagreement over any of her possessions. What I would give for that written list or for her to preside over one last conversation with my brother and me around the kitchen table. She would set us both straight.

My desire for these silver pieces is they be passed down another generation or two. I want them used at my son and daughters weddings, or on the table for their first Thanksgiving or Christmas as newlyweds. Most of all, I want the memory of their grandmother to live in their homes and hearts. 

What I didn’t want is a stranger to have them. So I ask again. Does anyone today care about the family silver? I do. I’m obviously the last of the Mohicans.