Esther Yin-ling Spodek

This is a candelabra that my parents purchased in Cuernavaca, Mexico in 1972.  The artisan shop where they purchased it was on our daily walk home, to the home where we were staying.  My father was a visiting professor at the teachers’ college, a former hacienda with a beautiful tiled pool where no one was allowed to swim, and a snack bar where we would eat pistachio ice cream bars and drink Coca Cola from small bottles because we were not allowed to drink the water.  I was ten, and my brother was eight.   

My parents looked at the candelabra many times.  We would get off the bus at the end of the day and walk the cobbled street to a small, well-lit store in a modern building.  They would eye the candelabra, then discuss it on the walk back to our host family in the waning December light.  Dinner was always near bedtime, and we had plenty of time to walk home.

They decided to buy it.  My mother carried it home in her suitcase in between her clothes so that it would not bend.  It would sit on our mantel in our college town house in east-central Illinois.  The trip was the first time I saw people in obvious poverty, women who washed their clothes in the river, beggars without limbs. And it made me want to learn Spanish.

I am now the keeper of this treasure. It sits in a windowed cabinet, hiding piles of candlesticks, bowls, and vases.  It reminds me of the warmth of my family living room and the sabbatical trips when I was young, women washing clothes in the river and Coca Cola in bottles, of glances I was fortunate to have of the world outside of Illinois.