day Aunt Margaret and Uncle Stewart left on their cruise was bittersweet. It took no time at all for life at home without them to take on a predictable routine — school, diving lessons, then evenings of torture by Great Aunt Beatrix. Besides setting the table and reciting grace before every supper, I had to learn about the history of that stupid china that Duff broke.
“Did you know that the Chinese exported porcelains, such as this, to Europeans as far back as the 1600s?” asked Aunt Beatrix one evening just before suppertime. “It was held in such high esteem that the English word for it soon became china — for the place it originated.”
“Fascinating.… Now can we eat?”
“Oh, pishposh. We’ll eat in a few minutes. Now one special thing about our family’s china — besides the fact that it came directly from China by traders — is its pattern.” She pointed to the dainty blue -on-white pattern. “This is cobalt blue and was very valuable. It was first used more than a thousand years ago. The other thing you’ll want to notice is this small symbol on the bottom … each artist had his own unique mark or sign. It was important for the good artisans to identify themselves. The really gifted ones were invited to the palace to make pottery for the emperor. Isn’t that fascinating?”
“Mind-numbing.… Now can we eat?”
“Peggy, are you not hearing me? This very porcelain, which belonged to your great great great grandmother, is some of the oldest china in the country.” I could tell by the way her face was turning red Aunt Beatrix was quickly becoming annoyed with me. If I ever wanted this lecture to end with supper I knew I had to at least pretend some interest.
“Wow! So if it’s so rare and valuable why do they sell dishes just like it in the department store?” Aunt Beatrix gasped, like I’d said a four letter word.
“My dear, the only similarity between this porcelain and the tableware they sell in the stores is its pattern. This willow pattern — said to tell the sad story of two star-crossed lovers forbidden to love one another — has been copied over the centuries by many people.” Then she held up one of Aunt Margaret’s precious plates to the light on the kitchen ceiling. “For it to be truly fine china it must be translucent like this — you see?” I could see a clear shadow of her hand behind the plate. “This is the kind of china enjoyed by kings and queens, Peggy. The dishes sold in stores today are nothing but cheap replicas.”
Aunt Beatrix went on for another ten minutes, telling me how cobalt blue first came from Persia, that it was the kaolin clay found in China that gave porcelain its translucent quality, and that all the decorations were hand painted — which explained why there were small differences in each plate. She finally stopped after grinding in the fact that porcelain china made in the emperor’s Imperial factory had a nian hao — a Chinese date mark — painted on the bottom. There were only a small number of painters who had this job, so their style could be recognized like individualized handwriting.
So it was — night after night it was either a history lesson or what Aunt Beatrix liked to call practical life lessons. Like learning to polish the silver, make fruit preserves, and knit. Once supper was over and the dishes washed and put away the rest of the evening was mine. That’s when I read about diving, or the history of the Pacific fur trade, or underwater archaeology — things I really cared about. I especially enjoyed reading Captain Whittaker’s diary.
In the back of my mind I was also trying to figure out when it would be the perfect moment to pop the question about going with Dr. Hunter to find the Intrepid. Timing for this was everything — which is why I had to make sure I had enough stored up brownie points. That’s where Aunt Beatrix came in. I figured it was impossible for Mom not to have noticed how cooperative I was being with the cranky old history professor. After all, the agony of being her improvement project had to be worth something — something real big.
One night while I was studying my PADI diving manual Aunt Beatrix sat down across the table from me.
“I wish you took that kind of interest in your school work, Peggy. Maybe then you’d do better on your English tests,” she prodded. I was about to object when I caught Mom’s eye. She gave me the “let it go, Peggy” look.
“Aunt Beatrix, you do realize that the school year is nearly finished and the time for trying to get my teacher’s approval has long passed.” Mom shot me a look. Okay, I’ll be quiet … but I’m right.
“Aunt Bea, I’m just happy that she is so passionate about this course. I’m sure the skills she’s learning will spill over into other aspects of her life.” That was my signal — tonight I’d ask Mom about going on the research trip. I waited until it was time for bed.
“I know Aunt Beatrix can be frustrating, Peggy, but I think she really enjoys spending time with you. She says you remind her of when she was young,” Mom said as I snuggled under my blankets.
“She was young?” I asked, trying to look shocked. Mom ignored the question.
“She grew up in a different time, Peggy. A time when girls had few choices and the main goal was finding a man to marry. Then after that it was all about being the best homemaker for your family or best hostess for your husband’s business dinner parties. Who she became was partly due to the times she lived in.”
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t be so bad if she would just stop trying to make me into Suzy homemaker or the queen of etiquette. Doesn’t she get it? Nobody cares about that stuff anymore.”
“True, but maybe they should.”
“Mom, are you serious? Who cares if you eat with your elbows on the table, or whether you reach across instead of asking for someone to ‘please pass the salt and pepper?’ And what’s the big deal about writing thank-you notes — I mean who does that stuff anyway?”
“Peggy, having good manners is more than just knowing which fork to use, or saying please and thank you. Etiquette is really about treating others with respect. Sometimes the smallest word and gesture can go a long way in maintaining harmony in a relationship. And remember, the quality of one’s life is best expressed in the small details. Those are the things that can set you apart.”
“Humph,” I grunted. “That sounds just like something Aunt Beatrix would say.” Mom smiled. “Mom, did you mean what you said about how my interest in diving might spill over into other parts of my life?”
“Sure, every new skill and bit of knowledge all adds up to making us more well-rounded people. I can’t say how diving is going to do that for you — it’s not exactly a skill you can use every day, but you never know.” I was just about to tell her about the Intrepid when Aunt Beatrix called from her room.
“Elizabeth, come here right away. This cat of Margaret’s has spit up something disgusting on the floor.”
“Sorry, Pegs. Let’s talk more in the morning.” Thanks to Aunt Beatrix and Duff, the magic moment was gone. Maybe tomorrow would be the day.
After Mom left the room I pulled out the captain’s journal. I tried to imagine what the original one looked like. Maybe it was bound in black leather. And the pages musky from age and so fragile they almost fell apart in your fingers. I closed my eyes and pictured the captain sitting at his desk, writing by candlelight, the ship swaying and creaking, the wind gently whistling, and the muffled voices of sailors on deck.
November 10th, 1811
We are now five weeks into our voyage and there is a growing and palpable
