My First Tea Party Lady

The first Tea Party Lady in my life went almost completely unrecognized, I'm sad to say, until long after her death. 

My grandma, Anita Mabel, born in 1912, somehow held herself together through childhood neglect and abuse, an alcoholic husband, poverty during the depression.  She was a survivor, no doubt about it, but she never got to enjoy being a Tea Party Lady.

(Note: I changed the title to MY First Tea Party Lady, because folx looking for the VERY FIRST Tea Party Lady were mistakenly ending up here.)

I see her inner TPL now, in hindsight. 

She was a woman who never did anything for herself.  I don't know if it was a standard she held up that said self-denial was the way to be, or if it was habit left over from scrimping during the depression.  Whatever the reason, there was almost nothing that she did that was purely for her own pleasure or from her own desire. 

And it is kind of an interesting twist to realize that, although the Tea Party Lady's activities would seem to be all for others, in catering to guests and hostessing, etc., the truth is that allowing your inner TPL to come forth is an act of self-indulgence.  It's a joy that we have to allow ourselves, or the TPL within us strangles and dies.

Everything in my grandparent's house was patently grampa's, or something brought in to amuse or care for the grandchildren.  For most of my childhood, I took these things for granted.  Grandma's self-denial was my comfort, after all, and in the selfish way of children, I never wondered about it. 

I remembered her bringing me tea and toast when I was sick, and letting me use her special china cups.  But it was a secret, and something she only did when we were alone, she and I.  Those cups, and that act of delicate kindness, were the only outward evidence of grandma's Tea Party Lady. 

Somebody gave her the first cup as a birthday or Christmas gift one year.  She cherished that cup, but she hid it away in the back of a cupboard, never used, rarely looked at.  Maybe she was afraid to show that she cared about it, afraid it would be snatched away from her as had happened so often before in her life.

Another year, another cup.  Again, cherished, but hidden in the cupboard.  By the third year, and third cup, my mom secretly organized all the aunts and uncles and together they bought her a pretty wooden shelf, just for displaying her pretty china cups.  I'm not sure she would have used it, even then, but they all teased and cajoled and gently required my grandpa to agree to put it on a wall for her.  Up it went, while we all watched, and out came the delicate cups, one by one.  She seemed embarassed at first, to have this evidence of her desire so blatantly displayed.  It was like she didn't want anybody to know.  Sad.

There were 8 cups altogether, that I remember.  I loved the roses best.  When she died, 2 of the surviving cups came to me.  I keep them in a special place in remembrance of a special lady, who never got to let her TPL shine.