When my mother returned from her church trip to England, in her lengthy description of all they had seen and done, she lamented that she had not purchased a porcelain flower pot in a rural town. It was a small thing, mom shaped it in her hands and described delicate flower petals clustered in a bouquet with maroon, yellow, and pink petals that looked hand-painted. The piece had been in a glass counter filled with bone china figurines in the front of a shop with a curved bay window. They had just gotten off the tour bus and she just could not remember the town or the name of the store. My father called out from the living room that, across the village green from the shop, he got the best cup of coffee he’d ever had. The piece was beautiful, Mom said, and she truly regretted not buying it. I looked up from scrolling through my iPhone and nodded.
I told them that my friend Bill talks about the Moscow rule, derived from queues at markets and department stores during periods of scarcity. That is, if you see something you like when traveling, buy it right away because you might not see it again. And I mentioned how the rule had been proven in our own travels, when we thought we would find something again, maybe cheaper, but didn’t. So, we regretted not buying it the first chance. We often repeat, “Moscow rules, Moscow rules,” when pondering a purchase. This mantra fails us only once in a while.
A few years later, when my wife and I were driving around the Cotswolds, we stopped in the village of Broadway for a potty break, a walk around, and some refreshments. While sitting at an outside table, I looked across the street and suddenly got one of those creepy feelings of realization where things somehow fit together and with an odd sense of familiarity. I walked across to a shop with a curved front. Entering the door and looking left, there was a counter with Royal Daulton figurines. I immediately focused on one small bowl topped by flower blossoms. Through the dust, the thin petals were painted tints of maroon, pastel blue, and yellow. I asked to hold it and felt what my mother had shaped in her arthritic hands. I immediately bought the porcelain at whatever price. The next trip home, when I gave it to my mother she exclaimed, “that’s it!”
I had forgotten the joy she took in holding the porcelain flowers until I found it while cleaning out her house after her death. Now I treasure the reminder as I pass our china cabinet, and often mutter, “Moscow rules.”
