The Little White Jug

          My Mamma, sister and I, entered Australia as refugees back in the 1950’s.  We had nothing but dreams and my Mamma’s incredible work ethic to start a new life in a wonderful new, free country.

          My sister and I had very little in the way of toys and other kid stuff but we loved the movies.  Perhaps because our Mamma realized how little we had or perhaps because she loved them too, on Saturday afternoons we were given one shilling each with which to attend the local cinema.

          Across from the movie theatre was a small corner store that sold all kinds of knick knacks.  Everything from necklaces and earrings that we believed were made of real diamonds, to fringed silk stoles, to pretty cups and saucers.  Today that stock would probably be referred to as ‘collectibles’ and cost a small fortune.

          We particularly admired the teacups and matching saucers; some even had little plates for sandwiches as part of the set.  For us, this kind of thing was only ever used by the very rich.  Our crockery supply at home consisted of mismatched and chipped plates, cups and thick ceramic bowls picked up cheaply at secondhand shops.

          Since my sister and I usually had time to spare before we had to be seated for our movie, we would always cross the road to gaze in the shop window and practically salivate at the array of wonderful things we saw.  We devised a little game in which we each had to choose one thing that we would buy for ourselves.  The only rules were that one person could not choose the same thing as the other, and, you couldn’t choose the same item two weeks running.

          For weeks we had such fun.  Our noses pressed up against the window, pretending we could ever afford any of the beautiful things we saw.

          And then it happened.  One Saturday afternoon, staring into the window again we saw it:  a little white jug.  The kind rich people used for cream.  What made this little jug so very special was that there was a picture painted on the side.  I think we both saw it at the same time and I truly believe we both had the immediate and exact same thought.

          Mamma had often talked about owning her own house.  Her dream house was pristine white with a red roof, a white picket fence around the front yard, an arbor of roses over the gate and beautiful flowers abounding in the garden.  The picture on the side of the little white jug was exactly that.

          We knew we had to buy that jug for Mamma.  It held all the promises of Mamma’s dreams and our future.  We also knew we had no money except our movie admittance shillings and no prospects of getting any more.  Still, the least we could do was ask the price of the jug.  Perhaps we could save up for it?

          I cannot imagine what the proprietor thought when she saw these two little girls enter her shop.  Ten and eight we were, each clutching our cinema money and wondering about the price of the jug.

          It was far more than we had of course, and, the shopkeeper added, such a pretty piece would not last long in the shop.  It would probably be snapped up before the next weekend.  We were devastated.  But we were also resilient.  After all, we were Mamma’s daughters!

          We offered to pay a small amount each week until we had paid the full price of the jug and we could take it home.  We told the proprietor it was for our Mamma and that she would treasure it far more than anyone else could or would.  My sister and I were unaware of such a thing as lay-by or layaway.  For that matter, I’m not sure it had even come into practice.  But that sweet lady must have seen the desperation on our faces and agreed to take the jug out of the window and keep it behind the counter for us.  But, she emphasized, we had to pay something towards the total every single week without fail or not only would we lose the jug, we would lose any money we had paid on it.

          So for many weeks my sister and I bought our movie tickets but resisted buying lollies or the Screen News magazines.  The latest gossip about our favorite stars would have to wait.  And each week we crossed the road to the knick knack shop and handed over our pennies until finally the little white jug was ours.

           We were in our 50’s when Mamma passed away.  While sorting through Mamma’s things some weeks after the funeral, we came across the little white jug.  No longer white, fine crack lines running down its sides and a small chip in the lip, it had remained Mamma’s prized possession all her life; her dream on the side of a little white jug.