Phyllis Nutkis
My mother wasn’t really a collector of “stuff.” She had few knick-knacks, the bare minimum of kitchen utensils and clothing she’d owned since the 1940s. In this photo of Thanksgiving dinner at our house in the 1970s, there are no heirloom gravy boats, no inherited crystal or china—just the one set of dinner plates that we used every day (and the bottle of Pepsi, which was present at nearly every meal, possibly excepting breakfast.)
What she did collect, however, was people. She loved hosting large gatherings—Thanksgiving was always at our house, and barbecues for the 4th of July or a friend’s birthday were not unusual. But ours was a small family. There were three of us kids, but my mother was an only child and had only two cousins, who didn’t live nearby and whom we rarely saw. My father had two brothers who between them had four children; so that was the extent of our family.
I may be imagining deep psychological motives, but I like to think that this was the basis of my mother’s propensity for “adopting” strangers and acquaintances. My father and my brothers and I were never surprised to come home and find someone we’d never met joining us for dinner—and often, staying for a week, or even months. These could be teenagers or young adults--children of friends, who needed a break from their parents; or recently divorced women who needed a place to stay while they rebuilt their lives; or people who had come from out of town to volunteer for the numerous political campaigns my mother was always involved with. (I wasn’t really surprised when I came home for Thanksgiving during my first semester of college, to find that Gladys—a recently divorced friend of my parents’--had been living in my room. She’d moved out by then, but the name plate--with her name--that she’d affixed to the door was still there.)
In this photo, two of the people at the table are “adoptees.” One is the 20-something son of friends, whose parents had moved away and who was still “finding himself.” The other is a friend of mine from high school who lived with us for a year or two while avoiding her abusive father. Over the years, “guests” came and went; but as our parents aged, their social life and their ability to care for other people constricted. After they passed away, my brothers and I spent a few weeks cleaning out their house. We each kept a few mementos—my mother’s rings, my father’s cufflinks—but there are no vases, silverware, or valuable art. What we do have, however, is an expansive view of “family.” I’m very thankful for that.