The china problem

When treasures no longer fit our lives -- or our times

There’s a china problem in my basement. Maybe you have one too.

It’s nicely packed away but always lurking in the back of my mind.

The “problem” is a set of fine china my mother cherished — but which doesn’t fit my life.

Since I took custody, I have only used a platter now and then, and occasionally a delicate teacup or two.

No occasion seems grand enough for the full set.

And honestly, I don’t trust anyone else to wash it. I don’t want them feeling awful if they chip or break a piece.

My mother’s china is undeniably beautiful. Undeniably fine.

And apparently, too fine for me to use.

The real “problem” is this: I don’t know how to honor this legacy. And I don’t know what will become of the china.

An American dilemma

I’ve always known I wasn’t the only one facing this kind of dilemma.

But I didn’t realize it deserved a Page 1 feature in The New York Times.

That article told a compelling story: Five generations of women have cherished a set of fine china, carefully repairing each crack and break.

But the current owner, Ashley Dumulong, has no daughters, and neither of her two sons has any interest in it.

Fine china is a great American story, and it tells us a lot about our relationship to our possessions.

Dumulong’s great-great-grandmother, Laura Jane Briggs, was an English orphan who in 1906 crossed the Atlantic in steerage for a better life in Boston.

Years later, settled in a stable marriage, she began collecting a set of china.

It wasn’t just for serving meals. It was also a statement: a public marker that her family had made it.

It was a visual symbol of the American Dream.

According to The New York Times story, at one point in the early 20^th century, American families were spending an average of 13 percent of their annual income on tableware.

That’s equivalent to more than $10,000 today.

When a family finally had a full set, they weren't just serving a meal with it. They were telling a story:

We made it. We belong.

What matters now

Five generations later, Laura Jane Briggs’ china is still cherished. But her great-great-granddaughter is facing the fact that life is different now:

• Formal dining rooms have given way to open kitchens.

• Families have scattered, siblings living miles or time zones apart.

• Busy schedules leave less room for lingering around the table.

These days, “the good dishes” don’t have a job to do. Or a special role to play.

You don’t need fine china to munch your way through Sunday afternoon football.

David Lackey, who has been appraising china for “Antiques Roadshow” for decades, told The Times: “The popularity has plummeted — I don’t know a kinder word. Younger people are not interested.”

But for much of the past century, fine plates and cups and saucers and serving pieces were valuable objects in a household. They held stories and carried memories.

Passing these objects down wasn't just about inheritance. It was also an act of trust, one generation saying to the next:

This is a piece of our story. Use it, care for it, and remember us.

But life shifted. And now, sets of fine china crowd basements and storage units — and consignment shops and thrift stores, too.

Sweden to the rescue?

It’s a lot to sort through. And it turns out, the Swedes have a name — and a ritual — for that.

It’s called “death cleaning.”

The term hits our American ears harshly, but I think it’s worth the jolt.

Full confession: my mother’s china isn’t the only legacy issue I’m holding onto. Some of these dilemmas we inherited. Some we created.

And to be fair, some of them I truly treasure — and use.

While the fine china sits in the basement, my mother’s Corning Ware bowls are in regular rotation.

Every time I pull out the vintage casserole dish with its signature blue cornflower, I remember the comforts of my childhood kitchen — the smells and tastes, and also the chatter, the stories, the everyday rituals that anchored us.

I’m not alone. That same blue cornflower pattern is on display in Julia Child’s kitchen at the Smithsonian.

And Corning Ware bowls just like mine are fetching high prices on Etsy.

If I manage to “death clean” before the nostalgia fades, those bowls won’t be headed for the thrift store shelf.

The gentle art of letting go

Why the term “death cleaning”?

Perhaps because the Swedes see no reason to be coy about our mortality.

They consider it good manners to put your things in order before you die so other people don’t have to.

Sounds fair to me. After all, good campers always clean up their mess.

You can see this in action in the charming 2023 series The Gentle Art of Swedish Death Cleaning, still streaming on Peacock.

It was inspired by Margareta Magnusson’s book of the same name — both are wise, warm, and worth your time.

At its heart, death cleaning is an antidote to the idea that our things are our story.

Certainly, our belongings help preserve memories.

But life moves fast. And those precious objects? They don’t always fit the lives that come after ours.

Curating our legacy

So how do we curate our legacy …

• How do we know what the next generation will treasure, and what won’t fit their lives?

• How do we distill our stories from our stuff?

• How do we put our things in order before we die, so other people don’t have to?

Big questions. Worth sitting with.

But first — I’d love to hear from you.

What’s in your basement or attic right now? Or in your heart?

What’s hard to let go?

What carries a story you hope someone will want to hear?