Back in May 2007, when Big Papa and I moved my dad from Florida to Seattle, we had to make decisions about his belongings–what to jettison and what to keep and ship west. One of the keepers was a set of dishes. Not because we needed any more dishes—anyone who has been to our home knows we are well stocked in that department: vintage pink floral dishes from my college days, jade green Fire-King that I collected for many years, Christmas dinner plates from Big Papa’s family, and a set of lovely cream and gold filigree Lenox dishes from my grandmother.

However, this set of dishes was sturdy Pfaltzgraff, in a simple floral pattern Pfaltzgraff had retired years ago: Windsong. I figured they might come in handy one day and, if not, I could sell them. I didn’t have a big emotional attachment to them, they weren’t the dishes I grew up with but rather a set my father must have purchased when my parents split-up.

The dishes have been sitting in our [dirt-floor circa 1898] basement for 6-1/2 years and occasionally I thought about selling them. But I never got around to it. So when Big Papa’s cousin, Lauren, told us she was moving into her own apartment, I mentioned we had a few things we’d be happy to donate to the cause: a chair and a set of dishes.

I went with Lauren down to the basement, opened the boxes and showed her the set. Her eyes grew as big as saucers. These dishes—my dad’s Pfaltzgraff Windsong dishes—were the exact same dishes that she’d grown up with!

What are the odds of that happening (one of my well-worn phrases)? Pfaltzgraff has manufactured hundreds of patterns since the company was founded in 1811. But there you have it. Dad’s dishes and the dishes Lauren grew up with: identical.

Parting with dad’s dishes suddenly became much easier. Not only were they going to a good home, they were staying in the family. As Cousin Wendy, Lauren’s mom, said:

I guess we were meant to be relatives.

Take the road less traveled,

Beth

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