The Urn

This is my urn. It is made of copper, and the handles, I assume, are brass or bronze. I have had the urn for my entire life. I don’t know who made the urn or why, but fate has conspired to put the urn and me together. Whoever you are, wherever you are, for as long as you have known me, know that I have owned the urn.

Most people think of an urn as a receptacle for the ashes of the dead. But the dictionary also uses this definition: “vaselike receptacle or vessel, esp a large bulbous one with a foot” I did not make that up. My urn is vaselike, large and bulbous, and has a foot. See for yourself.

The urn used to live on the floor in the living room of my parent’s house in Pittsburgh. It was tucked away (or probably hidden by my mother) in a corner, behind the overstuffed green chair where my father would sit nightly, smoke his unfiltered Pall Malls and read the Pittsburgh “Post Gazette.” I guess no one really liked the urn except me and my dad.

I once asked my mother where the urn came from. She told me that a woman friend of theirs, working as a maid, had been given the urn by her employer, a wealthy Pittsburgh family. This woman friend did not want the urn, so she in turn gave it to my father. Then my mother hid the urn behind a chair. That’s three levels of “don’t want” before the urn got to me.

When I heard that the urn came from a wealthy Pittsburgh family, I imagined the conversation between the husband and wife which resulted in the urn being gifted to the maid.

Wife: “Edgar, what is that horrid urn?”
Edgar: “Well, dear, it’s an…urn! Isn’t it wonderful?”
Wife: “Edgar, it’s...bulbous. And those creatures on the handles will give young Edgar Jr. nightmares.”
Edgar (crestfallen): “If Junior isn’t having nightmares about the state of the stock market or German rearmament, I doubt that this urn will trouble his sleep.”
Wife: “Oh Edgar! It’s horrible!  it’s a globular abomination! I want it out of here this instant.”
Edgar: “But lovey, it’s Art Nouveau!”
Wife: “I don’t care if it was Napolean’s high school metal shop project. It has to go!”

So, reluctantly, Edgar heads off to find the maid, urn in hand.

Edgar: “Mamie, I have something for you. Here. It’s an urn.”
Mamie: “You’re giving this to me? No Mr. Edgar, I can’t accept that urn.”
Edgar: “Yes you can Mamie, and you will. Here, it’s your urn now.”
Mamie gingerly accepts the urn: “Oh, Mr. Edgar, I got no room at my little place to display a fine urn like this.”
Edgar: “You can find a place Mamie. Any room where you display that urn will be, um, transformed. Now get it out of here before my wife puts an Edgar-shaped dent in the side of the urn.”
Mamie: “Yes sir. Thank you sir.”

So from here, the maid passed it on to my father. My father and mother no doubt had their own discussion concerning the urn, and as a result it went on to occupy the dark corner behind the green chair, awaiting it’s discovery by young Tom.

I discovered the urn on the floor as a young carpet-crawler. I didn’t know what to do with the urn. Really, what can you do with an urn? Urns have specific purposes, which is what separates them from the purely decorative vase. I got a few pennies, and I began to toss the pennies at the urn. The urn has a small opening in the top, and a penny would make a satisfying “clang-a-lang” when I managed to arc one through the opening. This activity occupied me for hours and hours through the long nights of western Pennsylvania winters. Next to sliding our corgi “Atom” backwards down our long linoleum hallway, tossing pennies at the urn was my favorite thing to do.

The urn looks pretty and shiny now, but ‘twas not always thus.
   
After I had moved out of the house and my father died, my mother retired the urn to the basement, and according to the dents the urn acquired, none too gently.  It now sat in a dark dusty corner for years. I moved to California and completely forgot about the urn. Then, one spring, I happened to return to Pittsburgh for a visit. As I approached my mother’s house, I saw the urn perched on top of a pile of junk outside of the house. You see, every spring, the city of Pittsburgh would pick up any junk you no longer wanted. You just left it in front of your house and the garbageman would haul it away. This was the fate that awaited the urn. But the cosmic life force did not want the urn hauled off to the landfill. I just happened along before the junk was picked up. I spied the urn and immediately brought it inside the house. I then got into a wrestling/shouting match with my mother over the urn. She was determined to get it out of her house once and for all. I had to promise to take the urn with me, back to California. Since I couldn’t get the urn in my luggage, I had it shipped to myself via parcel post.

It was in sad shape. The copper had corroded to a dull brown. From its time crowning the junk pile outside, there was a green-ringed blob of bird droppings  in a spot. I scraped this off (sort of) and placed the urn on a shelf in our living room in our house in Mill Valley. My wife Gail was more accepting of the urn than anyone else so far. She really didn’t give the urn a second glance, as long as it made me happy.

So there it sat, year after year. Our children were born and grew in the shadow of the urn. At one point, I took the urn to a taping of “Antiques Roadshow” in San Francisco. My son Aaron and I stood in line for a couple of hours, waiting for some expert to tell us about my urn. As we waited in line, various people came up to us and remarked: “Boy, that’s some kind of urn you got there.” I fancied that some art historian was going to take one look at the urn, gasp, and explain it’s origin in a fevered tone of awe and reverence. But no such luck. The guy who looked at it said: “Yup. It’s an urn. Definitely an urn.” We left and returned the urn to its’ place on the shelf in our living room.

We decided to move from Mill Valley back to Gail’s home of Chicago. The urn was packed away for another cross country trip. But then Gail surprised me. For my birthday one year, she took the urn to a metalsmith, who gently pried out the dents . And he polished the copper, which removed all remnants of bird doo-doo and restored its handsome, uh, copper color. I know you’re supposed to let antiques have their “patina,” but come on. I don’t think the art world accepts avian fecal matter in any definition of patina, and I certainly didn’t need any desiccated pigeon poop on display in my living room.

So the years fly past. Occasionally I take the urn down off of it’s shelf and chuck a few pennies at it for old times sake, That makes me think about my parent’s house, the corgi and and the hallway, and the light from the table lamp while my dad read the paper. I sigh. I turn the urn over in my hands, admire the mythical amphibians and look inside. What else can you do with an urn? I wonder what other scenes the urn has witnessed, on whose shelves it has sat in its’ time here on Earth. Then I put it back on the shelf, with the rest of my memories and come back to the world of the present. It’s my urn. I am its caretaker for this lifetime and in a peculiar way it gives me comfort. I rest assured: no matter where I am, no matter what I’m doing, I know that my urn abides.