Flying Saucers by Loretta

[Editor's Note: This story was written by Loretta]

If you lived in the 40s and 50s, you will probably remember certain things: like when buying gas, you received a dish of some kind when filling up your tank . Dad always brought a plate, saucer, cup or glass home each week. Enough to make a set of them. Larry (my brother) and I were talking about what happened to those dishes and the memories came flooding back.

My mother had quite an anger issue. Sometimes when arguing, mom would pick up any dish she could find and throw it at my dad . She could hit any standing object within her throwing range. When their arguments got serious, each of us kids grabbed our favorite plates to keep them out of harms way. Mine had flowers in the center and petals on the edges. Each of us had certain memories of the dishes we rescued.

Now when mom was throwing, dad was dodging. He was always a moving target and harder to hit. After the cleanup and we were sure all was well, we’d relinquish our dishes and dad would start the process of getting more dishes all over. Because of her tirades we never had a complete set of any one pattern. After the flying saucer episodes, mom and dad acted like nothing was wrong.

I remember one particular incident when we were living in a two story house in Des Moines. Our bedrooms were up on the second floor. To get to them you had to go through the dinning room, open a door to the stairs and up you’d go. Mom had sent us to bed when an argument ensued with Dad. He wanted to move to California; Mom didn’t. She informed him she wouldn’t leave. We all snuck down and listened at the door.

The dishes had been washed and put away but all mom had to do was open a cabinet door and boom, our plates would be no more. Instead she told my dad to leave. He said “No”. Mom started for the phone but Dad had hidden it. So, when he told her to go ahead and call, he knew full well she wouldn’t be able to find it. Well, after a while, things calmed down and all was well.  And guess what? Within a few months we were living in California.

I had my plate all through school and when I moved out on my own, I left the plate behind. To this day, I’m not sure what happened to it.

Pile of Broken Dishes