Calling Avon
This was my first published creative non-fiction piece, back in 2017. It originally appeared in a small literary journal for Feast Coffee, but I have obtained permission to reprint it.
My writing and viewpoints have grown, of course, but I wanted to share this story with a broader audience and my new readers. May is both Mother’s Day and my Nanny’s birthday, so it seems appropriate to close out the month with this.
My grandmother, affectionately known as Nanny, had died several months ago. The funeral had passed, emotions were settling, and it was time to go through her things. She had lived in the same modest one-story house in East Tennessee from the time my mother was very small until just a few months before her death when her battle with cancer finally proceeded to the point where she conceded the freedom of living alone. She had been a widow since the year before I was born, and her house was neatly decorated with mementos of her life and family heirlooms, which rattled and shook on their dusted shelves whenever one walked too quickly across the aging hardwood floors with a cavernous basement below. It was not a quiet house. You could hear from one end to the other and perhaps this is why it was the place where I discovered the Easter Bunny and his fellow present bringers were myths while we were visiting one spring.
And now it was spring again, and I made the drive up from Georgia, toddler, and infant in tow, to help my mother and her brothers decide what would remain in the family and what would be up for grabs by the people that enjoy finding bargains at estate sales on Saturday mornings. Here they would find furniture, a piano, china teacups (a whole lot of them and I realized amusedly that I never saw her actually drink hot tea from one), and old books. But first, there was jewelry to be sorted, wall hangings to be taken down, and well-organized photos and letters spread throughout the home, her strong matriarchal presence echoing through her organized belongings.
As we opened boxes that had been taped shut for years, we found one filled with an unexpected trove of treasures — collectible Avon bottles. We began to unwrap each ceramic figure: dogs, vases, chess pieces, Betsy Ross sewing the flag, a red plaid thermos…and my mother started to recall the different cosmetics that Nanny would order from her Avon lady. In general, we thought that these would be worth nothing except allowing us to reminisce about my grandmother’s love of a good powder, but I insisted we wait and look to see if there were lovers of Americana who might buy these collectibles. We all reached for our phones and ended up spending a couple of hours finding what these items were going for on eBay, Etsy, and other craft collector websites. We landed on a decision to catalog and save the kitschy items for the estate sale. Wrapped in newspaper, many still contained small amounts of liquid.
Sitting there in leggings and not a trace of lipstick (because I usually only know where my lipstick is when a toddler has gotten ahold of it) I would not be mistaken for the sort of Southern woman that had an Avon lady. Nevertheless, as we re-boxed the items, I felt a sudden nostalgic connection to a line of women on modest incomes that still insisted upon a beauty regimen and remembered how it used to be a major crime in my family to leave the house without your hair set and your makeup on.
I looked through the designs that I liked and pulled out a plaid thermos that had contained aftershave for my grandfather, but would look cute in my retro and red kitchen. Then I set aside a group of floral oil jars to decorate my bathroom and convinced my mother that a set in her favorite hue of emerald green would make a cute vintage contained for oil on her kitchen table once it was cleaned out.
Later that week as I unpacked at home, I unwrapped and cleaned my find, setting it on the edge of a bathtub that was luxuriously large for our rental price range. I couldn’t get the stoppers out of the tops of the bottles, but as I planned on using the decanters purely as decorative items, it seemed to be a worry for another day.
There they set, a nice reminder of Nanny while I was getting ready each morning, until one Saturday I found myself with a little time as my toddler was entertained, my husband was on the phone, and the baby was asleep in his vibrating rocker. I drew a steamy bath to reward my aching muscles for my first full week of working out since my youngest was born. Soaking in the tub, I reached for one of the Avon jars on the ledge it was perched on. I inspected it, steeping it in the hot bathwater, and gave the stopper a tug. The stopper popped out, and much to my surprise with it spilled oils smelling of rose, jasmine, and all of the cosmetics our collective grandmothers use to get ready for church.
How old was it? 10, 20, 30 years, or more? Should I drain the water? Could oil go bad? Would it irritate my skin?
It didn’t smell rancid, and as the clear cloud spread through the bath, my skin felt instantly smoother upon contact. Making what seemed an unwise choice, I decided to keep the bath and as I relaxed in the heat and smells I felt oddly connected to the idea that women for millennia have been soaking in water and oils — Sandalwood, Frankincense, citrus, and floral — as part of a beauty and health routine that prepares us for life in a world that expects us to be cleaner, softer, and more sensual than our male counterparts.
While the king was at his table,
my perfume spread its fragrance.
My beloved is to me a sachet of myrrh
resting between my breasts.
My beloved is to me a cluster of henna blossoms
from the vineyards of En Gedi. Song of Solomon 1:12–14
My oily bath made me think of my grandmother’s life: brave and strong, leaving her home state to attend college in Tennessee and staying there to become a homemaker married to a school teacher in a small town. What if her collection of Avon wasn’t just to simply perform femininity in the way that was expected of her, but was an escape that made her feel more herself? For an hour in the bathroom, she could be alone with decadent scents and textures, not interrupted by small children or her husband, needing, wanting, expecting. She could emerge with a look that made them think the time spent was for others, but the feel of her skin, the shimmer of her jewelry, the brightness of her lipstick perhaps made her feel relaxed in the way I was currently feeling — regardless of my stretch marks, extra weight, or lost opportunities, I am womanly and beautiful, and good grief, I smelled good.
Why else carefully wrap up these cute treasures easily available throughout her adult life other than some emotional connection? While there were many treasures in her home, it was always neat and organized and I would have never called her a pack rat- there must have been a reason that she saved these items so lovingly. Maybe she just assumed one day they’d be worth something as collector’s items, but maybe the collection was important to her. It was a moment of thought that was soothing to the loss of her presence. The secrets she might have kept in there, the moments only for her, exiting to a world where she lived in the service of others.
Precious treasure and oil are in a wise man’s dwelling,
but a foolish man devours it. Proverbs 21:20
I exited the bathroom, clean, dry, and clothed, and picked up my baby boy to nurse him. Restless all week from the pain of pushing his first two teeth through the gum, he fell asleep in under five minutes, rubbing my wrist and forearm with his chubby little fingers, and breathing in the floral scents wafting from my skin — the newfound softness noticeable to someone as young as a babe in arms.
I know now that when the precious oils of my grandmother have been emptied that I will refill the newly cherished vase, so long relegated to a cardboard box and wrapped in newspaper, probably with oils from the fancy, organic grocer down the street, but perhaps I will simply find myself a beauty sage; my own personal Avon lady.
