Christmas Treasures

Christmas 2013

Meredith knows how much I enjoy writing and how I love the challenge of story starters. This year she gave me a gift that keeps on giving. She wrapped up five small objects; I am to unwrap one every week.

This is the note that Meredith included with the box of treasures:

A Box of Bloggable Curiosities

 Each week, unwrap a new treasure. You can photograph it, learn more about it on the internet, &/or write a story about it for your blog!

                                                Love,

                                                Meredith

This caviar dish is the first object. Below is a very brief summary of the things I learned about this company. I have written three very different short stories using first person, second person and third person.

There are several sites that summarize the lives of two Armenian brothers--Melkoum and Mouchegh Petrossian. I have chosen to share the highlights. The brothers were born on the Iranian side of the Caspian Sea but raised on the Russian side. Being Armenian was not popular in Russia after the Bolshevik Revolution in 1917, so the brothers fled to Paris. They hoped to continue their studies in medicine and law, but they were unable to get into French schools. They later introduced Russian caviar to the people of Paris. Their company, Petrossian Inc., is still in operation and run by descendents of the two brothers. Based in the United Sates now, the company continues to sell superior Russian caviar as well as smoked fish, chocolates, gift baskets, specialty teas and coffee, etc. They also have restaurants in New York and West Hollywood.

Story one about the caviar jar:

The Museum Piece

You find yourself making your way cautiously through a maze of glass cases in the remote North Idaho museum which is an architectural atrocity of cramped, odd-sized rooms housing curiosities from the Pacific Northwest.  Most objects rest on glass shelves: dusty, cluttered, disorganized, and oh so very vulnerable to fire, theft, and the ravages of time. Western artifacts are laid out haphazardly, overwhelming your senses; valuable objects are arranged next to commonplace memorabilia. An occasional interloper from a different era, a different region or even a different country is displayed right along side genuine articles from the West The jumbled layout leads you to make your way through the treasures, trinkets and tarnished mementos without pausing long enough to see the surroundings as having a kind of quaint charm.

As a young man of 26, you are already a connoisseur of fine art and a collector of vintage memorabilia. You have appreciated the breathtaking beauty of museums throughout the world. Your former partner, Conner, suggested that you look up this rustic museum while you had some time on your hands after visiting relatives. You have driven nearly fifteen miles over unpaved roads to reach this unlikely establishment. And now, once inside, you realize that Conner’s recommendation was merely an attempt at another passive/aggressive stab to the heart. Your breakup three months ago had been traumatic and acrimonious. Neither of you was willing to end the four year relationship without bitterness and lasting repercussions.  

With ticket in hand, you trail through room after room in search of the exit. Occasionally you do take note of  an interesting object, but the sheer magnitude of the random collections and the untidy, cramped rooms make it difficult to focus, appreciate, or linger.

Then you see it and stop. There, behind the jar of 1800’s horse liniment is a very small, empty glass jar. The lid on the jar reminds you of the cap on a glass soda pop bottle, only this top is about two inches in diameter. On the cap, you take note of a picture of a ship, and the word Paris, and then you pass on.

The rough mining towns of the old West left behind countless articles to remind us of their short-lived prosperity, and nature itself added further proof of a kind of a forgotten time. Room after room with shelves three high display these bits and pieces from the past: Rodent skulls, guns, knives, wanted posters, bear teeth, claws, hides, straight razors, spurs, gold dust, silver nuggets, pick axes, ornately framed photographs of sullen-faced families, fine china,  bordello ads, doilies, journals, snuff boxes, antlers (every size and every condition), simple toys including dolls with matted hair and ruined faces, a wolf’s head hat, dental torture devices, samples of barbed wire, arrow heads, and a long, narrow room with alcoves to represent various rooms in an l800’s house. Each of these displays is filled with furniture and graced with manikins in period costumes.

And you do pause momentarily as you come upon incongruous objects, especially the six foot elephant tusk resting on a wooden stand, seashells, a replica of an Egyptian mummy complete with a hieroglyphic caption and a giant lobster.

There are preserved animals of every kind including a cougar poised precariously overhead, a two-headed snake and a owl perched high in an artificial tree. One crowded, chaotic room displays surgical equipment, wood stoves, a model of a tepee, peace pipes, and hundreds of photos of mining towns, miners and families.  A shelf is laden with a stove-top iron, an early (non electric) toaster, countless medicine bottles, and heavy cast iron pans. On the shelf below are early cameras, jewelry, (especially broaches), Japanese fans, bottles, and a pair of tiny Chinese shoes. Shelf upon shelf, treasures and trash: cookie jars, wire rimmed glasses, quilts, models of early planes, lanterns.

Suddenly you find yourself retracing your steps, making your way back through each narrow chamber, inching through the mostly-glass collections room, and continuing against the trickle of other hapless customers who are making their way to the exit at the end of the labyrinth.

Then you see it and stop. The tiny jar. Paris. And as you stoop down to see it more clearly, you read, Salmon Rue. Petrossian Paris Salmon Rue.  It’s right there, an authentic 1920’s caviar jar with the original trademark cap.

Pale and weak with excitement, you follow the trail of wanderers toward the last room again. And, as if in a panicked hurry, you wedge through the shelves and bully your way around annoyed patrons, your mind blank with wonder. But before you cross the exit threshold, the door of no return, you turn and, once more, make your way past the accordions and skulls, the telegraph keys and beaver pelts. Then you see it and stop.

You back up to the sliding glass. Close, very close. You reach behind and, while facing nonchalantly forward, you inch the glass open enough to fit your hand through. Your fingers search around blindly, first hitting upon the liniment, and then finally, finally, they brush the salmon jar. Each finger works together to pull and push and drag the delicate jar until finally persuading it to come nearer. Your fingers close in. You snatch it. You pocket it. You inch toward the exit.

You saunter through the door and into the small souvenir shop. Replicas of the museum’s antiques line the shelves and counter tops. A display stand holds additional memorabilia loosely reminiscent of past years: Licorice, horehound mints, cowboy hat eraser tops, and pens that, when tipped upside down, a sliding tube in water reveals one of the famous Ladies of the Night. There are Made in China Indian dream catchers and bags of green and blue plastic cowboy and Indian figures holding guns and bows.

You buy two post cards for your nephews: one of the two-headed snake and the other of a terrifying Medicine man mask, and slip out into the cold, clear night. You can’t help but smile as you think of showing Conner the coveted treasure and thanking him for the tip about the isolated museum. Your spiteful smile widens as you reach into your pocket to finger the jar before slipping into the rental car and heading East.

Second caviar jar story:

Tom Sawyering

Chester dug into his deep pocket to mine as many treasures as he could find. Lenny was finally willing to trade. Willing, that is, if Chester could produce enough booty to make it worthwhile. Chester loved this old coat because of its one cavernous pocket. He could store all of his prize possessions for just such and occasion.

Lenny had held onto his genuine good luck bear tooth for over three weeks. No matter how Chester had begged for a trade, Lenny would not even consider it, but now Lenny had begun to doubt the magical properties of the treasured tooth. In fact, in the three weeks that he’d had the tooth, he had nothing but bad luck. His frog died. His Ma made him take a bath. It rained on the day he had planned to climb Mt. Gilder, its steep slope  becoming a muddy slide.

Of course Lenny would never tell Chester about the bad luck. In fact, he told Chester he was only considering a trade because they were best friends. They met at noon in the park. Chester had been told to bring all his treasures, and maybe, just maybe, the lucky tooth would be his.

So, there he was, reaching deep into his treasure pocket. Out came a piece of gum, a metal Army soldier, a toenail from the witch in the brown house, three mints, a mummified toad, a horseshoe magnet, three marbles—two cats eyes and one steely, a dime he forgot he had, and a small, empty glass jar complete with lid.

Chester spread out a wrinkled handkerchief on the lawn and carefully arranged each item on the cloth. Lenny looked over the items. He handled each one carefully as Chester hovered over him.

“This all the money ya got?” Lenny asked as he fingered the dime.

“Yep,” Chester replied as confidently as he could.

“So, this is it?”

Chester’s hand explored his pocket one more time. He shrugged, somewhat embarrassed by the absence of a truly spectacular item.

“Tell ya what I’ll do,” Lenny began. “I’ll consider the trade if you can tell me something special about one of these things. Right now it just looks like a bunch of junk.”

Chester rubbed his chin and thought quickly. “O-k. Sure. Ya see that glass jar? Well, I truly hate to part with that. It’s special.  It belonged to a king, a real live king. It had a magic potion in it. When the king ate just a little, tiny taste, he became strong and . . .and. . . smart.”

“Ah Chester, I ain’t got no use for smart. But what did he do with the strong?”

“Why he became a hero, Lenny. He saved a Princess; he killed a dragon; he defended his castle.”

“I don’t want no Princess; there ain’t no dragons any more, and I live in a box, Chester.”

Chester thought fast, “Yeah, yeah, but you could do other strong stuff. Anything. No one could ever hurt you.”

Lenny examined the jar. “It’s empty! What’d I want with an empty jar? Where’s the magic concoction?”

“Oh, ya only need to smell the jar to get strong. Here, take a whiff.”

Lenny inhaled deeply and nearly knocked the jar from Chester’s hand. “Ugh! Fish! Old fish! Ya tryin’ to kill me?”

“It’s got to smell bad to make ya strong. It’s fish eggs, Lenny. Rare. Magical. You’ll see.”

Lenny thought for some time. While he really didn’t want the bear tooth any more, he wanted to be sure he got as many treasures in the trade as possible. He finally nodded and began collecting the items on the handkerchief, and then he ceremoniously presented the bear tooth to Chester.

Both boys were happy enough with the negotiations, and a simple trade between boys explains why Chester felt lucky all his life and how Lenny, a boy living in a box, came to own an empty caviar jar that made him strong forever.

Story three about the caviar jar

Princess

“This is for you, Princess.”

That’s exactly what he called me, Princess. I’m 34, and he must be 60 or something, but he called me Princess.

He handed me a small glass jar of some sort. Perhaps I should say he presented the jar to me, like it was a ceremony, kind of like a piece of jewelry that sparkles on a velvet pillow.

I picked it up to examine it. I didn’t snatch it up, mind you.  I, for want of a better word, daintily picked up the jar. Oh, I ain’t no lady, but there was something about the jar, or Mr.Gibonson, or Princess that made me feel special. I know I’m common, but for a moment I felt like something important. Valuable. Real genteel-like. I been seeing the old gentleman for a fortnight now. He took to me right away, said he’d make an honest woman of me.

Then Mr. Gibonson took the jar from my hand, set it on the table and removed the lid. He took a tiny spoon from his pocket, a delicate little thing, and real proper-like—and fancy. He dipped the spoon in and dabbed up a little taste.

“Here, my Princess. If you will consider marrying me, you shall eat the finest caviar everyday.”

He lifted the spoon to my lips. I opened wide. Horrified, I spit out the nasty muck and left Mr. Gibonson standing there, his face covered in the vile, cruel joke.

Game Face

Last year when I heard someone use the expression, “game face,” a story began to germinate in my mind until it became this storyette. (Not to be confused with its longer cousin, the short story). Recently I’ve been thinking about societal game faces. They play an important role in our daily routine as we are always “Fine thanks,” to every “How are you?” in spite  of unrelenting pain, both physical and emotional. Or, another example,  getting ready for an interview, you prepare your face with make up and just the right smile to showcase your intelligence, and, perhaps, reveal a hint of subservience. Naturally, in this instance, your face must also scream team player. So . . .nothing really harmful about these masks. They get us through, serve a purpose, do no harm. But I began thinking about other masks we clamp on, masks that hide hurt or loneliness. Embarrassment or confusion. Fear or hopelessness. I imagine this type of game face can cause permanent ruin, and because one often hides raw wounds behind such a convincing facade, no one is aware that the person has long ago forgotten how to take off the disguise and look in the mirror. What do you think of the following story?  While hopefully we rarely come across  the rough-talkers and fierce-snarlers that Jillian encountered, we most certainly have our own fiends that challenge us. Dear reader, what part does a game face play in your life? 

Game Face

      “Must be a Picasso,” Jillian grumbled to herself as her cab shot down the four lane street past the garish graffiti. Bright red and yellow paint was splashed across one of the gray tenements in the sprawling city. The irreverent art was punctuated by bold, dark symbols of defiance and unrest. Within minutes of passing the disturbing scene, the cab slowed abruptly and edged along amid an impatient convoy, each vehicle panting out blackened, toxic waste.

      Jillian began to fidget in the back seat as she reached for her briefcase.  “Excuse me, it’s just two blocks away. Just let me out; I’ll walk the rest of the way.”

      The driver’s eyes darted up to the rear view mirror to catch a glimpse of the classy woman. “Bad neighborhood here.”

      “I’ll be fine. It’s broad daylight.”

      The traffic had come to a full stop now; the driver craned his head around to give his full attention to his insistent passenger. “Don’t matter about the light. Dirt bags here, drugs and all. Ain’t no place for . . . .”

      Jillian frowned and began rummaging around in her designer handbag. “Just tell me how much I owe you for this far?”

      The cab lurched forward a few feet as the driver yelled over his shoulder. “I told you . . . .”

      “Look, do you want to get paid or not?”

      “O-k, O-k. Whatever. $15.95 to here.”

      Jillian thrust two tens toward the driver and literally jumped out of the cab into the snarled traffic. Just as she crossed in front of another cab that was idling next to hers, traffic started to slowly roll. A cacophony of blaring horns and bellowing curses demanded that she get out of the way.

      Jillian reached the safety of the sidewalk and teetered precariously in her three inch heels on the uneven pavement.  The vehicular swarm gathered some momentum and began leaving her behind. She reddened with rage as several drivers called out and saluted her with obscene gestures as traffic sluggishly made its way down the street.  Suddenly the log jam was completely freed, and the flotsam and jetsam quickly rushed past on the sweltering concrete current.

      As Jillian made her way down the street, the crumbling sidewalk seemed to undulate beneath her.  It became impossible to maintain her usual sophisticated demeanor, and instead, she struggled against becoming a comic portrayal of intoxication. Weeds had gained hold in most of the sidewalk’s cracks, and every few yards the concrete had heaved up to form peaks as if an earthquake had struck. After Jillian had managed to maneuver half way down the long city block, she paused for a moment, and as she lifted her eyes from the uneven path, she became aware of two male figures in the distance. Instinctively, she looked to see if the street was clear to cross so she could continue on her way without a face-to-face encounter with the men. It was then that she noticed the solid wooden barrier across the street. The temporary wall, covered with flyers and torn paper fragments, had been erected to cordon off a massive construction project.  It extended for the remainder of the block and took in all of the sidewalk space, leaving Jillian no alternative but to remain on her current route. The two­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­ disheveled men were leaning against a power pole and looked up listlessly as Jillian approached.  She kept her eyes on the sidewalk, not wanting to meet their gaze or lose her footing on the crumbling walkway.

      “Well, what’s this?” The shorter man drawled.

      As his friend’s cigarette dangled from his whiskered mouth, he shouted to Jillian who was, by now, just a few feet away. “Ya lost, you purdy little thing?”

      Jillian recoiled from the coarse language and worked hard to keep from running or raising her eyes as she stepped from the curb and into the gutter to walk around the leering men.

      “Hey, be careful of them purdy shoes, missy. Plenty of room for ya up here.”  Jillian continued in the slippery, mud-choked gutter until she was well around the men. She stepped back up onto the sidewalk and, never lifting her eyes, continued on her way.  Jillian could hear the men’s relentless heckling. The taunting laughter seemed to close in on her as their words became increasingly menacing and obscene.

      When she rounded the corner, she quickened her pace. The hollow sound of her heels hitting the pavement echoed, making her retreat feel surreal and measured in erratic, slow motion.  The men were pursuing her, she was certain, matching their pace to hers.

      Jillian grabbed off her shoes, gripping them along with her purse and briefcase. An old chain link fence stretched along the sidewalk, enclosing a small, neglected lot. Tall weeds and litter filled the otherwise empty space. As the walk sloped abruptly, Jillian fell against the fence, snagging her hose and scratching her leg on an errant wire. As she quickly examined the blood trickling down her leg, she was startled by the sound of something crashing against the fence. A large, black German shepherd hurled his body against the faltering boundary. As he launched himself at the fence over and over, his vicious bark and exposed teeth chilled Jillian, leaving her unable to move for several seconds. Suddenly a portion of the fence began to yield with each onslaught. The beast continued its terrifying rampage, the vile clamor reverberating long after Jillian turned onto a safe street, a welcoming street, her street. 

      Breathlessly, Jillian wrenched open the ornate double doors of the towering building that housed her office. Quickly crossing to the elevator, she punched twelve and leaned against the wall, working hard to control her inefficient gasping for air.

      As the elevator doors slid open, Jillian made her way to the ladies’ room three doors down the hallway. She quickly surveyed the damage of her nightmarish flight. It was then she became aware that she was still tightly clutching her shoes in her right hand. She dropped them to the floor, slipped off the ruined hose, and mechanically went about wetting tissues to clean the dried blood from her leg.

      With trembling hands, Jillian began to repair her make up and straighten her prim, tailored suit. Every sound startled her as the men’s disgusting jeers and the dog’s threatening advances ricocheted throughout her body.  She hit the buttons on all the hand dryers in order to mask any sounds and glanced warily into every corner to be assured that malevolence had not pursued her into this refuge.

       Although she knew that her secretary would be troubled that she was late, Jillian remained there, looking intently at the wild-eyed, vulnerable image in the mirror. Finally, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. As she slowly exhaled, she opened her eyes to see that the previous terrified reflection had now been replaced with a confident façade. At last she picked up her belongings and started boldly for her office, ready to begin another challenging game.

Blue October sky

We actually had a blue sky on Halloween. I love looking at the sky and wish there were a way to capture its ever-changing splendor. I don't think it can be done, however I continue to try. Below are two pictures. The first is a picture I took  on my walk on Halloween, and the second is the same picture using Photoshop. I enjoy experimenting with photoshop, but an original photograph is always the preferred photo  because . . .well, because it's real. Nothing trumps nature.

Neighborhood walk

This week on my walk I stopped to watch the deer and turkeys eating side by side in a neighbor's yard. I want to get a better picture of them, but for now these pictures will help me remember the wonderment of the day. I also saw some glorious leaves. The greatest treasure today is the beehive. I'll take it to show the kids I tutor. We're studying insects right now, so this will be a fun item for the "what's in the box" game. It's not everyday one finds such bounty.

My favorite quotation