Purging Leads To Using The Good China

My mother never had pretty dinnerware, nor did she ever have a single piece of China. We ate off melamine plates where the coating eventually bubbled up and flaked off, or unremarkable stoneware with forgettable designs in the 70's colors of brown, gold, and avocado. Mother was never frivolous in decorating and looking back I realize that even when I was a child, she preferred masculine designs and practicality over anything truly feminine. But when I was eighteen, I thought she 'settled' for 'dull' and I wanted to do something nice for her.

My first decent paying job was working in the petroleum industry with my then soon-to-be spouse in Louisiana. Every Friday night we'd head to Ruston for groceries and it was at a particular grocery store that I found a 'deal'. The deal was to spend a set minimum of dollars that would in turn allow you to purchase one Johann Haviland Dinner Set of Bavarian, Germany China a week for something like five dollars. (Dinner plate, salad plate, fruit bowl, tea cup and cup saucer). Mother's favorite color was blue and she preferred silver over gold, so this set touched my heart. Over the course of eight weeks I was able to buy eight Dinner Sets and at Christmas of 1981, this was my gift to her. She seemed to genuinely like them and I felt satisfied that I'd given her something really pretty.

Over the course of the next six years, I never saw the China. She didn't have a China hutch, so it wasn't surprising. But in 1987, she and Daddy bought an old house on a beautiful piece of land and someone built her shelving in the kitchen. For the first time, she displayed the China. The shelves were high up on the ten foot walls, and this is where the China sat, undisturbed, for close to twenty-eight years, give or take. It was never dusted, never washed, and certainly never used. 

And then the day came when she and Daddy moved from that house and in the process, she asked if I wanted the China back. She said she had nowhere to put it and if I wanted it, I could have it. Of course I took it! I brought it home, washed it, and then? I put it out of sight in cabinets because I didn't have a cabinet or hutch to display it. Some years later, we moved, and again, the China was hidden in cabinets for a time. 

In 2023 I found an antique China cabinet and hutch, and for the first time, I had a place to display my China. The only problem was, I also had a more complete set of my mother-in-law's China to display and the hutch was a bit crowded. But, I did what I could and both were displayed.

In early 2025, my husband and I decided that where our present home is located is not an area that either of us wish to spend our final years. Our plan is to sell this property and move elsewhere, and at that time he will retire. These plans, as well as the knowledge that we abhor the act of moving, led me to start 'purging'. 

I started in my closet: If it didn't fit well, toss it. If I'd not worn it in a year, toss it. If it was ugly, toss it. Next would be my what-nots, books, music CDs, DVDs, and so on. I tackled our storage shed as well. To date, I've carried 15 car loads of stuff to the local donation center. And then came the kitchen.

I had a stack of assorted stoneware, three partial sets to be exact. One I loved, but a child of mine had broken a ten piece set down to four plates. Another was a partial set I don't even recall when or where I acquired. The last was a hand-me-down set, and while pretty, they were all chipped and held no sentimental value. My goal was to donate all of these plates and purchase Corelle plates. Corelle, while not the prettiest plates, are light-weight and durable. But, for some reason, I held off donating any. My reasoning was that I'd donate all these plates just as soon as I could afford to buy the Corelle plates, but until then, I'd keep them.

Then came the China. My now late-mother-in-law's China isn't going anywhere. It's a very pretty and complete set, and it means a lot to my husband. It might someday mean a lot to our daughters or granddaughters. But the set I bought for my mother? Several of the cups were cracked and though I am a coffee and tea drinker, the cups were just too dainty and small for me. And while I didn't love the idea of donating the set, it was now mine to do with whatsoever I wanted.

Two weeks ago I was getting everything out of the cabinets to do just that, and I wrapped and boxed the cups and saucers first. Next I picked up a plate and was about to wrap it when I stopped. It was a beautiful plate. It felt 'right' in my hands. I loved the way it felt. I put it down and picked up the small fruit bowl. I had the same feeling: It was beautiful, it felt right, and I loved the way it felt. I had the same reaction with the salad plate. I put the dish down and opened the cabinet where the stack of mismatched stoneware plates sat. I took one of each of the three designs down. I looked at them, I held them, and you know what I felt? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I looked back at the China plates and I smiled. 

Why not? Why the heck not?

Forty-four years ago, in the fall of 1981, I saw these beautiful plates and I loved the thought of giving my Momma something pretty. Forty-four years ago I accomplished that goal. Then the day came when she gave them back to me, a gift I'd failed to realize. 

I asked myself, 'What good are gifts that remain hidden, never used?' 

On that day I donated all of the stoneware minus four plates that I kept for nuking. That night, for the first time in forty-four years, my China was used for a meal. It's been two weeks now and my China is used for every meal, and every single time I grab a plate, I feel...HAPPY! Genuinely HAPPY!

Sometimes you just have to use the good China!

2025, Ancestry, and Wild Things

 November 11, 2025

We're nearing the end of 2025, and two days ago I discovered that studying my familial ancestry is angering a few family members. Why, might you ask? Because what I'm uncovering is 'embarrassing' and 'bringing shame' to 'the family'. One person even went so far as to tell me that God forgave generational sins, would 'cover' generational curses, and I needed to stop digging stuff up! When I read that mini-sermon and admonishment, I said aloud, "What the hell? What is the sin? What is the curse? Who the hell does this person think they are?" And then I laughed at the hilarity of it all!

Let's step back to many moons ago when I was in my late teens and my maternal grandmother lived with us. From the time I was a small child, I was held captive by her stories of ancestors and the times they lived in. She was in her early eighties and I was wise enough to know that she wouldn't live forever. Over several days I sat near her with pen and paper as she gave me names, correct spellings, dates, locations and stories of people that came before she and I. When we'd finished, she said that she hoped those things wouldn't die with her and that someone would keep a record. I promised her I would.

Fast forward to the invention of the internet and my discovery of Ancestry.com. I made a tree and taking Grandmother's notes, I started filling it in. Thankfully, extended family were also on the site and they, too, were making a record of what their elder family had relayed to them. Of course, sometimes the information was absolutely ridiculous.

One distant cousin on one line had told everyone we were descendants of a great and mighty Indian Chief. She stated that he had married a white woman and they had a bunch of kids, and one of those kids was our ancestor. One winter evening I had time on my hands and started researching by dates and ages, as well as the history of this Indian Chief. Within a couple of hours I had disproven the distant cousin's claims because: 1) The Chief hated white people and killed all he came in contact with, including women and infants, and 2) In order for that Chief to have impregnated the supposed white woman, that woman would have been four years old at the time of the birth of her THIRD child! A few years later when I, along with a male sibling, sent in our DNA swabs for analysis, it came back that there was not a drop of NAI blood anywhere along that particular bloodline! 

But, for the most part, I've been able to determine, through all the factual resources offered by the website, a pretty clear picture of my family tree back to the early 1800's for most, and back to the early 1700's for one particular line. And then comes the DNA matching, and that is both confusing and extremely fascinating. The confusion comes in trying to determine 'who' links us, and to date, there is no fast or easy way to do this. But the fascinating part is realizing how many people I share segments of my DNA with, where they are all located, AND the fact that I am linked to people of different races than my own! When Ancestry.com shows me a face and states that this is my DNA cousin, and I find my photo beside the photo of a woman or man of a different race, I smile because I find it absolutely beautiful!

THIS is the part that infuriates, embarrasses, and brings shame to my family members! Meanwhile, I'm sitting here infuriated, embarrassed and ashamed that I am related to such narrow-minded, hate filled people, and people who profess to be Christians at that!

As a believer in God, and the story of Adam and Eve, I believe that we all originated from two individuals from long, long ago. It is because of this that I have always felt that any racist views and opinions are wrong. If I love God, which I do, then I must love my beginnings, which I also do, and I must love and accept all humans as brothers and sisters, which they are, according to the Holy Bible. The most beautiful tapestries are woven with colorful threads and ofttimes wild textures, just like this life. And I for one, appreciate that work of art that only God could create. 

This time of year I used to sit for hours in the hunting blind. I carried my binoculars, my camera, and my journal. A gentle breeze was the only sound and eventually I'd be blessed with the sight of grey fox, porcupine, badgers, skunks, white tail deer, mule deer, and javelina coming in to the feeder or water trough. Many times all would feed together, keeping a respectful distance, but allowing the other wild creatures to quench their hunger or their thirst without any fighting. 

If the wild things of the world can be respectful toward one another, why do some humans have to be such ass-holes to other humans??? It's 2025, for crying out loud!

Be kind, be respectful, and be a blessing!

Jenn

Throwing ALL My Old Journals Away

 I've been writing since I learned how to hold a pencil and create words. Creating sentences from random words has always been a great love of mine, and so it is little wonder that I started journaling as a kid. Of course, back then it was called 'writing in a diary', and all young girls seemed to have one. But the task remained the same: Write down what you're feeling, seeing, thinking, and keep it safely tucked away for whatever reason. So? I did that and have done that for years upon years.

As I grew older I thought that by writing about my thoughts and my feelings it would later help my children and grandchildren learn who I was and what made me tick. I felt that was important, but not in a narcissistic way. Having lost my paternal grandmother when I was six, I've grieved her death for over fifty-five years simply because I never got to know her as anyone except my beloved 'Nanny'. And through those fifty-five years of missing her, I've only gotten small glimpses into who she was as a woman, a person who was not 'just' my grandmother. It was because of her that I felt my children and grandchildren should be left some kind of record of who I was, just in case they ever cared to know and I wasn't around for them to ask.

And then I started reading those journals and dammit! I became so depressed, so angry, so embarrassed!

I found that I tended to journal when I was angry, or hurt, or horribly depressed. I wrote about all the things that had hurt me, all the things that had angered me, and all the things I never seemed to get over. 

And I sat back and started asking myself, "Self? Is this the shit you want to be remembered by? Is this the shit you want to burden your children and grandchildren with?"

The answer is an absolute "NO!"

Truth is? I'd rather not be remembered at all than be remembered by some shit that hurt me sixty years ago!

SO, as painful as it is, and it is indeed painful, those journals are going into the trash!

If I can't journal something positive, kind, and sweet, then I damned sure don't need to pass that shit on down!

In Memory Of...

 Just a few days ago a family member notified me that she'd found a TikTok video inferring that the biological mother of my first grandchild had passed away. I found the video and initiated a search on the world-wide web for information that could prove, hopefully disprove, that this young woman was in fact deceased. After three days of searching and exhausting every avenue I could find, and sometimes having to pay for information that was lacking, I was no closer than when I'd started. This was even after I had a possible date of her death, per the video, and the fact that the woman's sister had made the video and the mother had commented that seeing the video had 'tore her up'. I was frustrated, and then remembered a dear young lady who is known for her ability to 'dig up shit on anybody anywhere'. Within five minutes this young lady had found that the young woman I was inquiring about had indeed passed two years prior, AND we had a cause of death: fetanyl. 

Sadly, I am not surprised. Heartbroken that nothing I ever did or said got through to her. I am heartbroken that she bore at least four children, one of which I adopted, two that were taken from her in their infancy, and the last is now probably in foster care as well. Heartbroken that such a funny, intelligent, outgoing, and attractive woman was so scarred and lost that addiction ruled her life and eventually took her life. 

But what hurts the most is that not a single person, not even her own mother or sister, found her life worth enough to write and post an obituary, nor correct her age! 

Don't bother telling me that her actions were so embarrassing that they couldn't bring themselves to pay her that last respect because that would be an absolute distortion of the truth! She was a product of her parent's neglect, and perhaps even abuse that was overlooked, ignored, or found unimportant by them. I believe this because they all 'use' in one form or another and when my grandchild was horribly abused by one of the mother's family members while in the maternal grandmother's care, after that man's conviction the maternal grandmother embraced the abuser, going so far as to move and live close to him for over twenty years and counting! 

What I do know is this: Georgia bore at least four children and though her love was skewered by the neglect and probably abuse she suffered through as a child, she loved those babies as best she could, even if it wasn't the right or normal way. I know that she was funny, had a great sense of humor, had a beautiful laugh and smile, was intelligent when sober, and always filled with an energy that I envied. Sadly, her ability to choose upright friends was nonexistent and sadder still, she never learned that those people really didn't give a damn about her. 

She was an addict; scarred by her childhood and poor decisions as an adult, and she leaned on drugs to cover the pain, the memories, and maybe give herself a few minutes of drug-induced joy. And in the end, that addiction took her life at the age of about 41.. (The Lost Faces of Fetanyl post says she was 34 and that is absolutely incorrect. She was 19 when she gave birth to her first child, my grandchild, and she died the day after his 22 birthday.) 

I loved her. I truly did. She gave me my first grandchild, one of the most beautiful gifts I've ever been given, and I'll always love her for that. 

You were a beautiful and tender woman, Georgia. You deserved better and I'm sorry your own family failed you. Your firstborn will remember you. That is my promise. He only wished that he'd been able to meet and know you when you got clean & sober. We'll always regret you never made it.

In Loving Memory 

of

Georgia Faye Lucille Stampley, abt. 1982 to August 3rd, 2023.

Lost Little Girl, Mother, and Friend.