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.