THE BALL JAR

 

THE BALL JAR

Grandma Ruth lived for canning - almost anything that grew on trees or in the ground. Summer and Fall, sealed bottles of preserved this and that began to line up, three and four deep, on the rough board shelving she had in the 'cold room.' Whenever possible, she liked to use Ball-made jars, but in a pinch, she'd take any glass bottle that could be sterilized on her stovetop, seal tightly and still be good months later.

Unfortunately, canning skills didn't pass down from Grandma Ruth to her daughter Beth, my mother. I remember the two women quarrelling over it. 'Too much bloody work, mama, when I can go down to Fresh Stop and pick what I need - in a can, right off the shelf. Or pull from a bin in the vegetable and fruit section.' After many years of disagreeing, both just grew tired of the fight and withdrew to their respective corners of our family's generational ring.

Grandma Ruth canned until she died in 1966; my mother avoided the hot topic of canning but deliberately went out of her way to buy more tin cans of this and that then could reasonably be expected to be consumed in two lifetimes. I've always believed it was Beth's way of sticking the finger at her mother for all their years of quarrelling over the god damned Ball jars taking up space in the walk-in pantry and the daughter's unforgivable moral corruption of not embracing her mother's religion of canning.

When Grandma Ruth died, Beth and her sister Evie reluctantly went to their mother's home to clean it out wall to wall in readiness for a quick sale in a scorching metro city marketplace. I went along on that first day just because I knew Beth was determined to start with Grandma Ruth's many shelves of Ball jars.

I wanted to bear silent witness to Grandma's obsession with Ball jars – empty or full.

Beth, Evie and I arrived at Grandma's about the same time. Mom and Evie got side-tracked by a painting hanging over the faux fireplace on our way back to the pantry. Mom insisted it was a genuine Lawren Harris and worth 'a crapload of money'; Aunt Evie believed it to be 'a god damn real good fake, not worth than a couple hundred max.'

While they quarrelled like only sisters can do, I went into Grandma Ruth's pantry. Six shelves high, each twelve feet long and one foot deep, her Ball jars lined up like silent foot soldiers waiting to go into battle.

Except for one.

An empty Ball jar, minus a sealing lid, light blue tinted glass with the letters' Ball - Perfect Mason' visible in the light from a 100-watt bulb dangling from the ceiling. On the top shelf – not an easy reach for my tiny Grandma, but an easy one for me at well over six feet.

I took it down, holding it carefully in my hands. I blew away layers of dust that had gathered on it over many years out of the way on the top shelf. The jar was imperfect, tiny air bubbles imprisoned within it, small ridges of glass and blue dye appearing in random patterns.

I could only imagine why Grandma had kept this Bell jar apart from the others. It was too beautiful to abuse its space with pedestrian fruits and vegetables. It should be admired. It should be kept in a special place. It needed a particular person to keep it safe from the imminent onslaught of the non-believers - Beth and Evie.

I was that particular person.

Over the years, since I rescued my Ball jar from Grandma's pantry, it has served me well in so many ways.

For a few years, I kept pencils in it. Also, broken ballpoints that I saved for spare parts. Magic markers sometimes took up space there, too – the smelly kind that little kids and I love to sniff loudly, always leaving yellow, red or blue ink dabs on the tips of our noses.

After returning from my post-college 'grand tour of Europe, Asia and Australia,' I put samples of each country's coins in Grandma's blue Ball jar. I filled it up. It weighed a ton. So it did double duty as a paperweight on my office desk.

One Christmas, I got a mesh bag of brightly coloured small marbles. I emptied the Ball jar of its contents and filled it to overflowing with the marbles. I kept it on my writing desk for a couple of years.

Once, someone in my family – no one ever admitted to it – removed the marbles, replacing them with coloured sand. 'It's calming,' my wife said. 'Bound to help your writing when you're so chill.' The coloured sand didn't live up to the promise, so I replaced it with a few dried flowers.

A few years ago, I emptied Grandma's blue Ball jar, washed it out and left it empty, sitting in the sunlight on the window sill above my writing desk. Occasionally, I rinse it out and pour in a cold beer or chocolate milk.

Of all the things that have filled up Grandma's beautiful jar over the years, I think the best thing is the memories.

The other day, my daughter asked, 'Dad, when you're gone, can you leave me Grandma's Ball jar? I promise I'll take good care of it – for both you and Grandma.'

I think I'll do just as she asks.

Grandma Ruth would be pleased.

First Published. In Potato Soup, May 25, 2021.

The Backstory. This tale is mostly made up, but some elements popped right onto the computer screen from my own experience over the years with a special Ball canning jar. Most writers, I think, have an object or a few objects that inspire their creativity on the page or computer screen. An antique, blue Ball jar is one of mine.

Legal Rights. I own the rights to this story. Please don't 'borrow' it from this blog and publish it somewhere without my permission. Ask me. Tell me what you want to do with it. We probably will be able to work something out.