When I was little, my mother took us on a series of trips to New England. We went with my cousins Dorothy and Emily. Dorothy was Emily's grandmother and my second cousin; Emily is my fourth cousin. The trips were for genealogical research; accordingly, we went to libraries and cemeteries. We also stayed at Bed and Breakfasts, each one quainter than the last.
It must have been at one of those B&B's that my mother was introduced to the trend of using mason jars as drinking glasses. I'm pretty sure she went to the store to buy some the moment she unpacked her bag upon our return. We drank our milk and water from jars for years. I don't really know why we stopped. Maybe a few shattered; maybe the novelty wore off.
Apparently the mason jars as drinking glasses thing is sort of a cliche now. I just learned that if you order a draft beer at Toby Keith's I Love This Bar, you will drink it not from a pint glass, but a mason jar.
Cliches notwithstanding, I just ordered a second six-pack of Heritage Collection Ball mason jars. I'd bought some earlier this month, thinking they would be just right for our house as well as a little less shatter-prone than our old drinking glasses. I liked them so much I wanted to have more on hand for company and/or replacements. They are lovely. Not clear glass, but a bright, cheerful turquoise. They are perfect in your hand, perfect on the shelf. As well they should be, considering they say PERFECT MASON on the front, just like the originals that were produced in 1913 did.
They give me such joy, these glasses, not only for what they are but for what they make me remember: my mother, my cousin Dorothy, and, because my cousin Dorothy reminded me so very much of my beloved late grandmother, my Grandma Watson.
Anything that reminds me of my Grandma Watson, who died when I was five and about whom I have far too few memories, is as perfect as perfect can be.