Six Polka-dotted Tumblers

Six polka-dotted tumblers stare at me through the glass doors of my kitchen hutch. The tall containers no longer grace the circular oak table in the back corner of the wrap-around porch of my childhood home. Now, viewing them at age seventy-one, my hands twitch. I recall cradling one of the frosted glasses in both palms as I tipped the tumbler to let the cool content rush down my throat. Presently, the glasses are in my care and I don’t know what to do with them.

            my six polka-dotted tumblers

Last summer when my sister visited me at the New Jersey shore, Jill brought a cardboard box with her. Individually swaddled in bubble wrap, the special glasses napped in the carton. Jill knew how much I loved these family treasures and was waiting for an opportunity to deliver the fragile cargo in-person.

Decades prior, mom had moved the drinking glasses from our home in upstate New York to her winter condo in Florida. They must have been important to my mother. Perhaps she wanted to bring a tangible reminder from the home where she raised her family and lived in since 1951. Or maybe, she knew she was going to serve a lot of ice tea in the warm climate. Oh, how I wish I could have a conversation with mom now. I would love to ask her about the six polka-dotted tumblers. Sadly, both she and dad are gone. And with them went the truth.

For some reason, I think the set of glasses was one of mom and dad’s wedding gifts. But, I may be making this up just to have a good story. I do not know why I think that. Perhaps I need a powerful narrative to match the impact that the glasses have on me. They are my emotional gold. The glasses are full of summer childhood memories that are as strong as the home-made ice tea that once filled them on sizzling summer nights.

Growing up, milk was the only permissible mealtime beverage for my sisters and me —other than breakfast Minute Maid orange juice made from frozen concentrate. But, in July and August, when we ate dinner outside on the porch, we were allowed to drink the magical amber liquid.

At first, Mom filled each glass with jagged ice cubes that she liberated from a dented aluminum ice tray stored in a small freezer compartment of the family Frigidaire. Then, from a large Revere Ware copper bottom saucepan, she poured lukewarm homemade ice tea over the tiny squares. The ice cubes crackled as the liquid continued to cool in the glasses. At the base of the pot, multiple spent teabags danced in the swirling residue.

Finally, she carefully passed the filled tumblers though the small open kitchen window to the porch where one of my sisters ceremoniously positioned the thin glasses on the floral fabric table cloth. Next to each knife, a tall silver ice tea spoon anticipated the chance to scoop up white sugar crystals to sweeten the tea. These spoons are also beloved heirlooms. And yes— I have them too.

       family ice tea spoons

So now, how do I go forward? It is the second summer that these fragile antiques are in my possession. In a haze of nostalgia, I admire them. I marvel at their age without equating them to mine. But sadly, they are simply tableware to my children. My son and daughter do not have any connection to the polka-dotted tumblers. But, for me, they are glass giants. So, I feel a need to revitalize them before they wind up in a dusty corner of an antique store when I am gone.

When I return home from the shore, I will prepare a batch of homemade ice tea. I will take out one polka-dotted glass from the cupboard. Through the chute in the front of my refrigerator, I will gingerly transfer a few ice cubes to the glass. Then, with one of the silver spoons, I will scoop a spoonful of sugar and gently swirl the crystals until they disappear.

As I sip my ice-cold beverage, I will shut my eyes and pretend that I am seated around the round table on the back porch in Ames, New York on a warm summer evening. I will strain to hear the familiar melody of crickets rubbing their legs together in the tall grass in the nearby field.  And then, I will repeat the ritual again the next day. And again—until Labor Day.

Kim

             Ames summer pastures