Mother's Kitchen Scales

I come from a large family. Twelve children. Actually, thirteen. I had a brother that died when he was thirteen before the younger babies were born so we grew up twelve. Six boys and six girls. But that will be another post.

My mother baked bread - LOTS of bread. She'd weigh the bread on an old-fashioned kitchen scales. That scales is sitting in my kitchen today. Somehow, as I get older, I think of her more. I wonder how she survived having thirteen children in eighteen years. But again, that will be for another post. Today it's about the kitchen scales. It's rusty, very rusty...so rusty when I was baby-sitting B last week, he pointed to it and said, 'it's dirty!' and I said, 'yes' it's dirty' but I don't see the 'dirt' - I see my mother's hands shaping, shaping, shaping bread loaves again and again and again...

Last week I sanded it down as much as I could without damaging the lettering and yesterday I sprayed a gloss on it.

Now it sits on a cupboard in my kitchen. The enamel plates on top of the scales came from Mr D. His family ate off of these plates in his childhood years. The rose was gifted to me on Sunday from a dear friend as a thank you to me when I'm the one who thanks her for the lessons she teaches me! The chicken feather came from granddaughter S who loves to give me gifts from their yard. Oh, how blessed I am!

Today, that scales with all its meaning and all its glory, sits in my kitchen as a monument to my godly mother.