an Old English term, morphing from the word pride, meaning the most important, significant position among a group of objects or personal possessions.
The Mona Lisa, for instance, has a major, pride of place, at The Louvre, in Paris.
Someone’s wedding picture might be considered one, or a diploma, trophy, or Gramma’s favorite chair.
I’ve been reading Dashiell Hammett mysteries, and along with drinking before breakfast, Dash seemed to favor the phrase that’s rather pleasing to this reader’s eye, alerting me to its melody.
Made me look around my flat to see what I could claim as my own...pride of place.
Could be my lemon painting hanging on a prominent wall to honor my late friend Jackie who always said…’when you get lemons, you make lemonade’.
Or my old neighbor Mimi’s owl, Elsa, who watches over things from the top shelf of my bookcase.
Then again, maybe it’s my bed covered with stuffed animals all named after American Presidents: George, Abe, Teddy, Ike, Harry, Jack and John Quincy, taking ménage a’ trois to new heights.
It’s interesting to apply it personally since, we all have something that we’re proud of, even if it’s kept under our hat.
Speaking of secrets, it could be the top hat I pinched, while drunk, at a party, allegedly belonging to one of the Vanderbilts.
I couldn’t help myself. Just call it history, on the rocks.
Maybe it’s time to take it from its noble box to display it in, a pride of place, if for no other reason but to honor where it might have been, like the famous Costume Ball of the Decade, Alva Vanderbilt gave in 1880.
If only hats could talk.
But back to language that’s not only inspiring, but lovely, lyrical and lights one’s imagination.
So what treasure do you have on display you’re rather smitten with.
A stuffed deer you bagged in Maine?
A signed copy of Electric Ladyland next to your prized Gibson Flying V Electric you named Jimi?
Tell me what’s under your hat…