In case you have forgotten what this artifact is, Dear Readers, it is an ashtray.
Something as rare as a hen’s tooth, nowadays.
I’ve always liked ashtrays. Back when I was a teenager, this was one of my prized possessions.
I’m pretty sure that my boyfriend Jimmy gave it to me when we were in high school. Alas, I can not find it. It has disappeared- along with these other sacred artifacts of my teen years.
A poster of Jean Paul Belmondo.
A picture of Bob Dylan.
My princess telephone.
My record player.
My portable bonnet hair dryer.
My jewelry box.
Gone. All gone.
But I still have the ashtray that my great Florentine friend, Italo, presented to me forty-three years ago. He was a waiter at Trattoria Cammillo on the Borgo San Jacopo and I was fortunate enough to be a frequent guest at this legendary eating establishment.
It was favoloso.
Here’s the menu.
Better yet, just look at these pasta primi.
And the vegetable contorni.
And the storied steak alla fiorentina.
Stomach-growling Sidebar: I’m drooling as I look at these pictures and remember my first tastes of authentic “farm-to table” cooking.
…Anyhow back in 1975 my Florentine boyfriend, Paolo, used to take me there a couple of times a week. My Italian wasn’t very good but Italo always got a kick out of me trying. He would laugh and tease me as I proved over and over again that I was the Charo of Italy.
One day I must have outdone myself and Italo got hysterical. And he made me a regalo – a gift- of an ashtray. In remembrance of all the laughs, I suppose.
Take a look at what he wrote on the bottom.
The ink is wearing off after forty-three years but it says: “Olimpia***, you are been my best friend and I will never forget you.” And he signed it “Italo.”
***My name in Florence. The Florentines thought “Ellen” was a nome brutta, ugly, harsh on the ears. So they preemptively gave me a new name.
And I’ve managed to hold on to the ashtray through the years. Through divorce, fire, out of town moves, everything.
It has no real value- except to me.
Until my friends Kevin and Carlos went to Florence on their Italian grand tour and I sent them to a little trattoria I adore.
(Photo by Kevin Gibson)
And when Kevin returned stateside, he called me.
He told all about the wonderful trip he had just taken. I was thrilled that he had loved every minute of his dolce vita alla italiana.
And then he told me something else.
“I showed that picture of your ashtray to the hostess at Cammillo, Ellen. And she was amazed. It turns out that she’s the fourth generation family member to work there and she told me that only one she has ever seen is at her grandmother’s house. She was a little choked up, I swear.”
Ah.
Priceless.
What a wonderful story with such a sweet ending, Ellen. It’s so neat the hostess, a fourth generation family member, was so touched by the existence of your ashtray. I’m so glad your friend showed her the picture. Thanks for sharing this with us.
I remember making an ashtray for my mother or father in grade school art. Were they still making ashtrays in art when you were in grade school? Since my mother saved our clay work, I may even have the one I gave her tucked away. I have a Delft blue and white ashtray from the ship we took to Europe in the 50’s. Did one of my parents lift it from their stateroom? They had stopped smoking by the time I was born but still kept ashtrays around for visitors as so many people did. I also have two small metal ashtrays with my great grandfather’s initials engraved on them. Plus, I have a crystal cigarette box with matching small ashtrays. I’m sure there are more ashtrays tucked away in the boxes of things I took from my parents’ house. Generations of smokers in our family. And in so so many other families, right? I smoked off and on for years and finally finally stopped. I hope I’m the last one to smoke in our family.
Glad you enjoyed it, Susan. I, too, also have some beautiful family-handed-down ashtrays. Useless now for nobody in our clan smokes any more, but still precious reminders of a different era.
Glad you’re a quitter. But don’t quit writing these wonderful comments. 😊🚬
Maybe we should come up with a way to display our ashtrays. It could be some kind of wall hanging with slots in which to stand up the ashtrays for display as they do with china plates. I have the ones I mentioned sitting about on tables. But if I find more when I finally have the time to go through the boxes of my parents things and find more, I’d love to display them.
I’m relieved to know I’m not the only one who has held onto family-handed-down ashtrays. I think I may even have a clay one made by my oldest daughter in art in the 70’s when so many of us were still smoking.
Maybe there’s a museum somewhere in our country which has a worthy display of ashtrays and cigarette boxes. It might be a neat place to visit and then leave them our beautiful family cigarette related items.
I gave the Wilmette Museum my mother’s old Hoover vacuum, which I used for a while and so did my daughter. It was the one with the bag we took outside to shake out the contents on newspaper. The museum was delighted to have it, along with a picture of my little 18-month old brother trying to reach the handle so he could push it.
Old things are so much fun.
Thanks again for your delightful story.
I have an ashtray my daughter Natasha made- probably when she was in first grade. Both my kids inherited my no art talent and thus it’s beyond ugly- verging on hideous. But I treasure it. And Susan, if old things are fun, as you say, I’m a riot. Thanks for the addendum.