A Piedmont Porchlight Story
If somebody ever builds a Museum of Ordinary Things, I already know what ought to be sitting in the very first display case. A Mason jar. Not polished. Not painted. Not one of those fancy blue ones folks decorate with ribbons nowadays. Just an ordinary Mason jar. The kind that spent its whole life doing honest work.
I got to thinking about that one morning at the Coffee Cup. Hattie was putting flowers in an old quart jar she’d picked up at the farmer’s market.
Curtis looked over at it. “You know, my mama used to drink sweet tea out of one of those.”
Hattie smiled. “So did mine. And, Uncle Toby McCarley was never without his quart Mason jar full of iced tea.”
I picked up the jar and held it toward the window. Funny thing about a Mason jar. It never seemed to care what it was. One day it’d be full of green beans. The next day, sweet tea. Then bacon grease. Then nails. Then wildflowers picked by a grandchild.
Nobody ever asked the jar if it minded. It just went right on being useful.
Curtis laughed. “My granddaddy kept pennies in one.”
“My daddy kept fish hooks and sinkers in one.”
Hattie nodded. “My mama kept buttons.”
I smiled. “Mawmaw kept everything.”
That got a laugh. If she couldn’t find a place for something, it wound up in a Mason jar. Rubber bands that kept the newspaper rolled tightly. Safety pins. Buttons. Marbles. Peach preserves. Even bacon grease. Especially bacon grease.
Funny thing about country kitchens. There was always one Mason jar on the counter, and nobody but Mama knew what was in it. You didn’t ask. You just trusted her.
Hattie grinned. “My mama had one under the sink.”
“What was in it?”
“I never knew.”
“You never looked?”
“I wasn’t that brave.”
Curtis laughed. “Smart woman.”
Outside, Earl Johnson walked past carrying, what else? A Mason jar.
Hattie pointed. “What’s Earl got?”
I looked closer. “Looks like string beans.”
Earl held it up proudly. “Nope. Okra.
“Pickled?”
“You know it.”
Curtis smiled. “I’ll trade you.”
“For what?”
“My wife.”
Earl didn’t miss a beat. “I already got one.”
The whole Coffee Cup laughed. After a minute, I looked at that jar again. You know what I like most about a Mason jar? It never pretended to be valuable. It just quietly became indispensable. Nobody handed one down because it was expensive. They handed it down because it had been there. Summer after summer. Shelf after shelf. Year after year.
It had watched tomatoes become soup. Cucumbers become pickles. Children become parents. Parents become grandparents. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being just a glass jar. It became family. Hattie took the flowers back and set the jar on the counter.
“It sure is pretty.”
I nodded. “It always was. We just forgot to notice.”
If somebody ever builds that Museum of Ordinary Things, don’t put the Mason jar behind velvet ropes. Leave it where folks can pick it up. Hold it toward the light. See the little bubbles trapped in the old glass. Run a finger across the raised letters.
Because the value of a Mason jar was never what it held. It was who filled it. And I reckon that’s true of a whole lot of things in life.
olbigjim 