Tag Archives: collector

HATS ON AND ON AND ON TO INFINITY

It’s just another ordinary day. I wasn’t expecting anything unusual to happen. My alarm rings at 7:47 am, right on the dot. I dangle my legs over the side of the bed and let them hang there for a bit to get the circulation back.

Cowboy Hats by Paul Br751

I start making the bed, and as I get out of bed, I straighten the sheets and then the Cowboy comforter. I smile, just looking at that bedspread. I can’t believe how lucky I was to find it on eBay. I’ve looked for one for twenty years. I owned one when I was a kid, but my mother gave it away when I was sixteen. She said I was too old for a cowboy bedspread. Can you imagine? Too grown-up for cowboys, ridiculous.

I walk the twenty-seven steps to my bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I take off my hat and look at the top of my head that clearly has less hair this morning than it did yesterday. I sigh. Oh well, what can you do? I get out my mustache kit. I comb it straight down and then trim each hair one at a time. I comb it seven times I try to be vigilant about the length and the shape.

You just can’t let yourself go to hell, right? I decided tonight I would touch up the gray a little. Not all of it, of course, I like to look my best, but no one’s going to believe that someone that is sixty-seven doesn’t have some gray hair in his stache. I jump into the shower and wash and rinse myself seven times. I put on my clothes and look in the mirror. Not bad, I think.

I pull up my bamboo socks, you wouldn’t believe how comfortable they are, and your feet can breathe. And the Piece De Resistance is my hand-made vintage Lee Miller boots. They cost a pretty penny but believe me, they were worth it. They are hand-stitched with red hearts and inlaid white patches. I  feel like a million bucks.

This makes it even more difficult for me to understand why I can’t find a woman to keep me company in the sunset of my years. After all, I’m not bad-looking, have some money in the bank and own a home with no mortgage. What more could any woman want? Plus, I’m very, very neat, and a dam good cook to boot.

I set the table for two, I live alone, but I’m optimistic. I take two steps to the right and then two steps back. And take my seat as I eat my bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. I consider where I might purchase my next hat. My plan is to buy a Brick Cowboy Hat, which is similar to a cattleman cowboy hat but has a squarer crown. I also have to pick up my Gambler Cowboy hat because I left it at the hat shop to be blocked. It‘s a little too big for my head now that I have less hair. So, I’m having it resized.

I wash and rinse the cups and bowls twenty-seven times and put them away. Today is the third day of the week in the third week of the month, so it’s time to go out and buy a new cowboy hat. I decide to shop at my old standby Cowtown Cowboy Outfitters. I received an email informing me that they received some new hats just last week. And luckily, Zane Western Apparel is only about a quarter of a mile from Cowtown. And that is where my Gambler Hat is being blocked. What a great day this is going to be.

As I head towards Cowtown, I decide that while I’m buying my new hat, I’ll peruse the flea market. And then enjoy barbeque ribs for lunch. I realize that I’m humming my favorite tune. “Whoopie Yippie e. Hurrah.”

I see the sign for Cowtown, and my heart starts beating a little faster, “Yippee Ky O Ky Yea.” I yell at the top of my voice.

I disembark from my 1965 Shelby-Made Mustang. I step back three steps and sidestep five and take a long look at my baby. It’s cherry red and pristine. I love it like I loved my mother. It’s 10:45 am. I take a deep breath and stare at the Cowtown Cowboy. It’s one of my favorite icons of all time.

The cowboy had a lariat in his hand, but people kept trying to swing from it. So, they took off the lariat. I decided to peruse the flea market. I enjoy looking through the now worn and somewhat tattered stalls. Why? You ask. It’s probably just a bunch of Chinese imports. Nothing is made in America anymore. Because it is part of my tradition, and that is reason enough for me.

I pick up a genuine replica of a Colt 45. I’m not a gun enthusiast, but it’s part of the Cowboy tradition. Still, I put it down and kept walking. And then I see in the distance a woman, a goddess, really. She’s wearing full cowgirl tradition. She has on amazing boots and tight blue jeans with a red flannel shirt and a matching red scarf. And the Piece de ’resistance, a creamy white Stetson hat.

I nonchalantly walk toward the table where she is standing. It’s a table covered in bright neck scarves. I casually glance at a sky-blue one and pick it up and feel the texture, and put it in the light to get a better look. She looks over at me and smiles. I look at her, and I notice she has the most astonishing blue eyes. I almost gasp out loud. I smile and say, “that scarf would look great on you. It’s the exact color of your eyes.

She glances at me, takes off the scarf, and says, “thanks, that’s a good choice.” I want to continue the conversation. But as usual, this is where I usually get tongue-tied. I continue, anyway. “Say, I was going to get some bar-b-que ribs for lunch. Would you be interested in joining me?”

“Lunch, sure. I guess that would be nice. I’m getting a little bit hungry.”  We head on over to Dutch Country Barbeque. She stops along the way and looks at tables at the wares. We arrive at the restaurant. A somewhat loud but friendly woman yells out. “Find a seat and sit down, folks. I’ll be right there.”

So, she has a seat, and then I take two steps to the right and two to the left and sit down. She gives me a funny look. I sit down and begin to move the salt and pepper into the right position. And then move the barbeque sauces next to each other. I take out a clean hand wipe and wipe the table down. I get another funny look. I begin to feel that uh-oh feeling. That I get when I notice people think I’m weird. But I don’t know what it is that I’m doing wrong.

“Well, I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Robert Leroy Cassidy. But everyone calls me Butch. May I ask your name?”

“My name is Sue Ellen Bassett. I own a small ranch about twenty miles south of here. I raise and train horses for the Rodeo here. Wait a minute, did you tell me your name was Butch Cassidy?”

“Well, yes, is that a problem?”

“No, it’s just you know Butch Cassidy was an outlaw. Are you a descendant or something?”

“No, I had my name legally changed to Butch Cassidy when I was thirty. He was kind of a hero to me growing up.”

“A hero, but was an outlaw?’

“Well, yes, technically, I guess that’s true. He lived by the code of the old west. It was a different time.  People lived by different rules. You know, live by the gun, die by the gun.” I watched her face carefully as I related this information to her.

She starts clearing her throat. It looks like she’s going to make a run for it. “Wait, I know this sounds crazy, but I’m not crazy. I have a thing for the old west and the gunslingers back then. That’s all. I’m not an outlaw. I‘m a retired insurance salesman from Texas. By the way, what’s your name?” I see her face relax a little.

“My name is Etta Thompson. Do you come to Cowtown very often?

“Well, about once a month if I’m picking up a new hat.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Do you collect hats?”

I smile. I think ok, and she doesn’t seem to think that’s odd. And so, I continue.” Well, yes, I do. I collect cowboy hats. And other kinds of Western paraphernalia. But my main interest is hats.”

“Well. Everyone has hobbies, and collecting hats seems a harmless enough activity. I enjoy collecting brass bells. I have about five hundred. I had more, but I sold some of them on eBay recently because I was running out of room in my house.”

“Oh, how did you start collecting bells?”

“I go to estate sales because I enjoy looking at older homes. I started to collect bells, so I had a reason to keep going to the sales. Basically, I’m curious about how other people live and the things they accumulate over a lifetime. People are fascinating to me.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m drawn to that many people or that I  like to talk to most people. There are very few people that I’m attracted to. I mean to feel a connection “ I feel my face getting red. Can you imagine still blushing when you’re over sixty years old?

“That’s alright, and I know what you mean.”

At that point, the waitress comes over. “So, what can I get you to drink? Do you need the menus, or do you know what you want?”

“Well, I would like a sweet tea and the lunch special barbeque.”

“Me too.”, Butch says and blushes.

After the food arrives, they both dig in and don’t really say anything until they finish eating. Butch feels comfortable with Etta, a rare occurrence. They both sigh, push their plates away and sigh simultaneously. Then they both chuckle at the same time. “That was good, says Etta.”

“Delicious as usual,” says Butch.

“Well, what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon, Butch?”

“First, I’m going to pick up a hat I’m having blocked, and then I’m going to Zane Apparel and purchase a Gambler Hat that I’ve wanted to buy for a long time.’

“That sounds like fun?”

“Would you like to come along?”

“I would love that, but I’m meeting with some guys about a horse they want me to train. I would love to get together again. In fact, I would like to invite you to come over and see my ranch. I’m really proud of it.”

As Butch starts to rise out of his chair, he lays down a twenty-dollar bill and a tip. And he says I would enjoy that very much. Any day in particular?”

“How about on Sunday afternoon, it’s the only day I don’t have a lot of work to do on the ranch, and the weather is supposed to be spectacular. We could take a ride.”

“Take a ride? I don’t really have a great deal of experience riding, But I would love to give it a try.” Butch is secretly amazed at his own words. Not to mention that he didn’t even do the two-step when he arose from the chair or clean the whole table and stack the dishes. A big smile crosses his face.

“Fantastic. Here are my card and cell number. How about around 12:30 pm? I’m a pretty good cook, if I do say so myself. I’ll make something special for us to eat.”

“Wow, I mean great, I look forward to it. I’ve had a great day. I look forward to seeing you on Sunday.”

They walk side by side out the door. Butch has never felt more alive and has a bounce to his step that he didn’t know existed before. As he is about to say goodbye, Eta leans in and kisses him on the cheek. I’ll see you then, Butch; I look forward to it.”

“Me too, Eta. I look forward to it. See you Sunday.”

As he starts walking away, he says, “Hell, maybe I’ll get two new hats.”

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THE COLLECTOR

It’s isn’t unusual for people to collect things. Collecting is an ordinary activity for people. While it’s true some people take it a step too far. That’s hoarding and I am by no means a hoarder. I’m a collector I pick and choose what I collect. It is not an obsession. I swear to god.

Yes, it’s true that I have been collecting all my life since I was a young girl. I grew up in the fifties and superheroes were popular with kids. I didn’t have any money but I wanted to be able to buy comic books just like all the other kids my age. My favorites were Casper the Ghost, Superman and Wonder Woman, and Archie. 

Mutter Museum skull collection

 

So I would collect soda bottles from my neighbors or on the Main Street downtown from the trashcans. I would take them to the little store on the corner down the street from my house. And then I would turn them in and get money for them. Then I would walk to the News Stand a store that sold newspapers, magazines, and comic books. It was right next to Tony’s the shoe repairman’s shop. Tony was friends with me and I would always stop by and say hello when I went downtown. I kept the comics for years until my father decided they weren’t worth keeping and threw them out while I was at school one day.

I started writing to movie stars and television actors and asking for photographs with their signatures on them. I used to hide these so that no one would throw them out. I have to admit I got a little paranoid about it. I hid my precious collections in places where no one, especially my father would find them. For instance between my mattress and box spring, and in my underwear drawer.

As the years went by I became more particular about the things I collected. I didn’t just collect memorabilia anymore. I kept things that had emotional meaning to me. Like a picture of me with two of my best friends from grade school when we went to the New York Worlds Fair in 1965. You could see the Unisphere in the background.

When I was about nine or ten years old I started visiting the town library and I was simply amazed by the sheer number and variety of books that were available to borrow. And it didn’t cost anything. I just had to fill out an application with my name and address. And I could take out any of the children’s books. It wasn’t a big library. It only had two rooms. The children’s library was in the back. By the time I was about thirteen I had read all the books in the children’s library and the librarians decided I could start reading the adult books. I was immediately attracted to the Mystery Books. I spent almost all my free time reading.

My love of reading initiated my desire to start collecting books on subjects that interested me. It ignited a desire to learn. Reading became a means to escape from the unpleasant things in my life. I became a collector of knowledge starting with animals and ending with curiosity about the stars and the universe.

It wasn’t long before my book collection was larger than the library of my childhood. I had to buy a bigger house with a room that was large and all the walls were lined with bookshelves.

I spent all my free time going to estate sales and book sales. I met a lot of interesting people at these sales. Often I would see the same people repeatedly. We often had discussions about all the different places that we frequented to find our treasures. I have to admit I was somewhat taken aback by the crazy things that some of them collected.

There was one woman that only collected Cook books, an elderly man that only collected fountain pens. A middle-aged man that collected colored pencils, but only used colored pencils not new ones. He said pencils that had been used still held the thoughts and talents of the previous owner’s within them. The most unusual collector traveled the world collecting the stickers from bunches of bananas that people bought at the food store. I couldn’t imagine why. He told me his followers sent him banana stickers from all over the world. I could not comprehend what kind of people would follow someone that collected banana stickers.

It really staggered my mind how people spent their time and money on anything as useless as banana sticker, or even one poor soul that collected chap sticks. He assured me that they were in pristine condition, never used. He had 6,000 of them and he insisted that they were all different. How is that even possible?

The years passed by quickly and at long last my library shelves were filled and I had to start stacking them on the floor. Soon my floor was covered with books. And I had to make a pathway to my bed. One morning I woke up with a start and I had what I can only explain as Divine Inspiration. I would start collecting the subjects of my books, and not just the books. I spent the next month perusing all my books and trying to decide what I should start collecting.

My latest book was about spiders. Well not so much spiders themselves but arachnophobia. The fear of spiders. I was trying to overcome my phobias at the time. And my greatest fear was spiders. It was a childhood fear that I was never able to overcome. But I decided in that moment on that morning that I was going to overcome my fear of spiders by surrounding myself with them. Well, I don’t mean everywhere just on the third floor of my house. It was a large area and up until now the only thing I collected up there was dust.

I found a place called INVERTS. They promised that they had the absolute best inverts for sale in the WORLD. That you could find spiders, tarantulas, moon crabs, centipedes, millipedes and scorpions. I drove three hours to their establishment. I was there before they opened. The owner finally arrived and was surprised to see someone in his parking area. It turned out that they did most of their business online.

All the same, he asked me to wait a few minutes and then he would open up his shop and I could spend as long as I wanted to look to my heart’s content.

I spent five hours studying all the creatures. And slowly I developed a fixation about them. The sheer number of different and unusual species. The variation in shapes colors and size. I decided that I had to have not one, not two but every species eventually.

I began my collection with arachnids. They are an arthropod group that includes spiders, daddy longlegs, scorpions, mites, and ticks. I decided to start with the Poecilotheria metallica. It is known to be one of the worlds most colorful and beautiful spiders. It was so beautiful I couldn’t take my eyes off of it. It look like it was made of sapphire. The owner of the store told me it was from India. He also mentioned that it would grow to be about eight inches. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her. She had an egg sac and the owner said he would sell that too if I wanted it. But I had to be aware that there could be a thousand spiderlings (babies)He pull a pad of paper out of his pocket and wrote a large sum of money on it.

I stared at the figure for five minutes and then I said, “yes, I’ll take her.” And that my friends was the beginning of a short but intense love affair. I purchased a habitat and supplies for her.

“Are you certain that you want to take the egg sac? The number of spiderlings is quite impressive and difficult for an inexperienced collector to care for. I suggest you take one of the males. They don’t grow as large and you won’t have the additional responsibility of the spiderlings. If you want I can keep the female until the spiderlings are born and then you can take her and the spiderlings can survive independently?

“No, I’m sure I am capable of taking care of a spider and it’s offspring. I’ve been preparing for this kind of collection my whole life. If you would just gather everything that I will need right now to care for them including the crickets or any other food you feel that they need?”

And that my friends was the beginning and the end of my days of collecting. As soon as I arrived at home I brought my beautiful Sapphire female and egg sac to their home on the third floor.  I spent the entire day setting up their habitat and making sure the temperature on the third floor of my house was optimal for them. I place the female in her tank. It was quite large. I wanted her to feel at home and not confined. I placed a small tree trunk in there for her to nest in. And she settled in. I couldn’t stop watching her. Even though she wasn’t moving around that much.

The owner of the store told me it took about eight months for the spiderlings to emerge so I expected them in the next week or so. I had to go out one afternoon to have my car tuned up because it was due for inspection the following week so I was out for several hours. I had overslept that morning and I was in a rush and apparently I left the cover of Peacock’s aquarium uncovered. That’s what I call her Peacock.

I had to wait in a long line at the car inspection station so I was delayed even longer. When I arrived home I headed up to the third floor to check on Peacock. I was so excited about the coming of the spiderlings. I was out of breath from running up the steps two at a time and I turned on the light and ran over to Peacock’s habitat. She was there but her egg sac wasn’t. I noticed several tiny spiders within the habitat. But where were the others? And that is when I realized that the cover was off. I yelled, “oh no the spiderlings got out.” I panicked, I stood there immobilized. I didn’t know what to do. I decided to call up the pet store where I purchased Peacock and ask him what to do.

“Hello, hello I have a problem. I’m the person that bought the Peacock Spider. Her spiderlings got out they are all over the place what can I do?”

“How did they get out?”
“I forgot to put the cover back on the habitat. And then I went out and now they are everywhere. What can I do?”

“That is unfortunate. This is why I advised you to just take the Peacock and not the egg sac. There could be a thousand babies. The easiest thing to do is to get your vacuum and suck them up. You have to be thorough if you miss even a few you will soon be overrun. Another solution is spray them with bleach and water, or essential oils and water, or pour boiling water on them. Or using a fly swatter and put them in a plastic bag.”

“Oh my that just sounds heartless, I don’t know if I can do it. I’ve been waiting so long to see them.”

“Well, the only other suggestion I have is to open all the windows up and some of them will go out the window and then at least they will have some chance at survival. If you leave them unfettered they will eventually mature and you can capture them because they will be large enough to catch. But if you don’t capture all of them they will start reproducing. And then you will have a monumental problem and your whole house will have to be fumigated. Good luck. Let me know how it all turns out.”

And then he hung up the phone without another word. I decided to use the open window method. And I blocked all the vents on the third floor and covered door jam so they couldn’t get out into the rest of the house. This was all because of my carelessness. I shouldn’t have gotten the spider sac that was a mistake. What was I thinking? I went downstairs and drank six cups of coffee. I was really wired. I decided to go out to dinner and a movie and then come back and see what was what?

When I got home from the movie I didn’t think my choice of moves was stellar either. I watched  The Darkest Hour. A movie about an alien invasion that did not end well. I stopped at a bar on the way home and had a beer and a shot. Between the six cups of coffee and the beer and a shot, I was both wired and tipsy.

I drove slowly home afraid I would have a car accident. Two block from my house I got pulled over by a local cop and he insisted on doing a breathalyzer because I was driving too slowly. And then I told him I only had a shot and a beer and six cups of coffee. I wanted to confess to him about the invasion of thousands of spiderlings. But I thought if I did he would really think I went off the deep end. And he would cart me off to jail for sure.

He let me off with a warning and I continued on my way home. This had to be one of the worse days of my life up ’til now. I decided that when I got home I would have just grit my teeth and just vacuum the hell out of my third floor and pray that none of the spiderlings managed to get down to the first or second floor.

I dragged the vacuum upstairs and spent the next two hours vacuuming the floor over and over and then I took off the vacuum bag and put it into two plastic bags and took it out to the trashcan and dropped into and secured the lid on as tightly as possible. I guess time would tell. I went back to the third floor and wiped down the windowsills and closed the windows. What a day. I looked into the habitat and Peacock was busy with her remaining babies. I fed her and turned out all the lights. I was tuckered out. I went downstairs and took a hot shower and fell into bed and didn’t wake up until 9 AM the next morning.

I laid in bed and thought about all that had transpired. It was clear that perhaps collecting live creatures was not for me. So, I decided to take Peacock and her remaining offspring back from whence she came. I would only collect inanimate objects in the future. And then I remembered my childhood fascination with weapons especially knives, guns, weapons and cannons.

 

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THE ROCKING CHAIR

I admit it. I’m a collector. Oh, some people might call me a hoarder, but that’s not true. I’m highly selective in what I buy and collect, always. For the last six months, I’ve been having a reoccurring dream. In the dream, I wake up to find myself in my car parked outside a store. The name of the store is OF MEMORIES PAST. The first night that I had the dream, I woke up with a start. And I couldn’t get back to sleep. I kept obsessing about the store OF MEMORIES PAST. I try to recall if I have ever frequented such a store, but I have no memory of shopping there or even seeing a store by that name.

Monkey Rocking Chair by Bob Culver

The second time I have the dream I wake up just as I’m about to lock my car door and walk across the parking lot and toward the door of the store. The third time I have a dream I was turning the doorknob. I hear a ringing sound as I open the door I look up and see bells that are attached at the top of the door frame and jingle when the door is opened.

The last time I had the dream was two weeks ago. I walk through the door and into the store. It’s an antique store, and it holds not only antique furniture but also any kind of ephemera. As I walk up and down the aisles of the store, I see many interesting items, including a candlestick holder that’s a snake. It’s placed on a side table with nothing else on it.  Its ornate base is coiled, and the snake’s head is erect and holding a candlestick in his mouth. As I gaze at the snake, his eyes shift in my direction and stare at me. And at that moment, the candlewick lights up and starts burning brightly.

When a snake symbol appears in a dream, it usually indicates that something important is happening in the unconscious. It can be either dangerous or healing. The snake symbolizes both negative things, such as toxic thoughts, fear, worries, and running away from something, and positive such as transformation, regeneration, growth, or rebirth.

And besides, the candlestick is an antique oak rocking chair. I’m sure it’s well over a hundred years old. I can tell by the way the wood pieces are joined. The oak is quite old, and its patina is golden and cool to the touch. The seat is upholstered, and there is an image of a monkey in a jungle wearing blue and white striped pantaloons and, a red and white shirt, and a vest with a beret with a gold medallion on it. I’m immediately attracted to this chair. I know I must acquire it. And that is when I woke up.

I’m familiar with all the antique shops in the area, so I contacted all the local dealers and described the chair and the candlestick holders, but none of them owned either object. One dealer suggests contacting local private collectors, and another suggests I look into local estate sales in the area. None of the dealers has either of these objects, but one dealer, whose name is Macomb, tells me that there is a huge estate sale in three days on Saturday, and he gives me the phone number. As he is about to hang up, he tells me to get there early because the estate sale has been widely advertised.

I arrive one hour early for the estate sale, and there is already a line going around the block. I feel confident that if my dream chair and candle holder are present at this estate sale, I will be able to purchase them because there is nothing about them that should garner a great deal of attention.

As always, everyone waiting in line is somewhat excited. They all believe they will find that one treasure that will be worth a great deal more money than they have to pay for it because they alone will realize its true value. After all, going to estate sales is the modern-day treasure hunt. I have to admit I feel a bit of a buzz myself. Not because I hope to find a treasure that will make my years of searching for treasure worthwhile. But because I’m looking for something so special that perhaps I will learn the secrets of the universe. Or maybe a way to travel through time and space or the secrets from the past.

About a half-hour ago, they started allowing five people at a time into the house. At this rate, it will be over an hour before I even get to the door. But I will wait patiently because I have a deep belief that my dreams have taken me to this point, and I will succeed. And so, I wait. I think back on all of the sales that I have attended over the years. And I have found some forgotten treasures, some I have kept, and some I have sold for a profit. I don’t regret one moment of it, not the long lines where I stood outside in the cold, in the pouring rain, and on the hottest days in July and August.

Five more people, and it will be my turn to go into the house. My heart is beating hard, and I’m so excited. I start taking deep breaths.  And then I heard my number called. “Numbers 56 through 61 come in. Everyone else steps back.” We are going to take a half-hour break before anyone else comes in. A noticeable moan goes through the remaining crowd waiting behind me.

Finally, I’m walking through the double doors. And I see before me an entryway that is astonishing, to say the least. It appears to be a hand-laid mosaic floor reminiscent of Giotto di Bondone of Florence during the Renaissance. It seems to be almost a sacrilege to walk on it. It is a garden scene in Italy with grape vine-covered stone walls and idealized romantic mountains and rivers. I walk along the edges of the floor, afraid that I might damage it in some way.

As I walk through the entryway, I see the living room beyond me. It is a room of light. It has huge ten-foot windows with stained glass in the top five feet of the windows. I stand there in awe. Even if I don’t find the treasures that I’m searching for, I know that this house and its contents are something I will not soon forget.

Most of the furniture in the living room has already been tagged as sold. This happens so often at these high-end estate sales. The antique dealers are the first buyers that get in, and they have already been made aware of what treasures are available for sale and they make offers a way out of range for the ordinary people to match.

But then, most of us are voyeurs or looky-loos who come to see how rich people live. And we pick up the odd knick-knack or souvenir. I have to say that I am truly impressed by the quality not only of the original artwork but the floors, the lofted ceilings, the marble, and on and on.

Unless I have the money and an interest in any particular piece of furniture or artwork, I never touch it. It is sacrosanct.  Not to mention that the oil and sweat from people’s hands are damaging to fabrics, paintings, and any handmade object. I hear the people around me oohing and ahhing throughout the house, so I know I’m not the only one who admires quality.

I begin to ascend the spiral staircase. The railings alone are awe-inspiring. There is a vining pattern that appears throughout the house. On the second-floor landing is a crystal chandelier that is to die for. But I can not imagine any other home that it would feel at home in besides this one. I’m sure the artist came to this home and designed it for this home and no other.

I peek into each bedroom on the second floor, and I’m pleased but not surprised to see the beauty and originality found in each bedroom. I would be hard put to pick one that I loved more than the next. I stop and walk into the main bathroom. It is black and white tiles from the floor to the ceiling. And a Victorian-footed bathtub that is immense. I have no doubt that three grown adults could bathe in it with space to spare. It looks as if the walls are a one-of-a-kind hand-painted mural of the sea off the coast of Italy. It has dolphins jumping out of the waves into the sky and swimming through the sea. Stunning.

I take a deep breath and walk on. At the end of a long hallway in which there are a least ten bedrooms, I find a small doorway with an old fashion skeleton key in the lock. I turn it. I turn the knob, and the door swings open. I see a narrow stairway. I look around, and no one else is near me, so I walk through the doorway and make my way up the dusty stairway. It doesn’t look as if anyone has been up here in a long, long time. I quietly make my way to the top of the stairway.

My heart begins to beat irregularly. I know, I absolutely know for sure that I’m going to find my rocking chair and the Snake candle holder in this room. I know I‘m meant to find it. I find a chain hanging down from the ceiling and pull it, and a dim lightbulb turns on. I find my way to the front of the room and pull open the curtains, which are heavy and purple velvet. I can’t imagine how hot and stuffy it must be in this room in the summer.

Light streams into the room. Which is much larger than I imagine. I wondered who lived in this room over the years. Was it an employee, a servant? Or perhaps a nanny for the many children that must have lived in this house over the years? Or a relative who was no longer in favor of the head of the household? Who knows?

I wonder if there is any way that I can investigate this family through historical records or perhaps a family member that likes to tell people about his family history. I believe I will have to contact the local historian for the wealthy families that have lived in this area in recent history.

I see that there are many, many storage areas along the walls. There are doors that are about two feet tall. I pull one open, and I see a Sea Chest. I struggle to pull it out. But it is so heavy. I push open the cumbersome top and peer in. There are woman’s garments. They look as if they are from the turn of the century. Maybe the 1920’s. They look as if someone could put them on today and look amazing in them. I examine the inside of one of the dresses, and I can see that it was all made by the hand of the finest silk. It is a sky-blue dress with a lowered waist and a pleated navy-blue skirt. I tuck it back in and close the lid.

I pull myself up and walk to the other side of the room and pull open the curtains on the window. And low and behold, I see a small table with a candle holder in the shape of a snake holding a candle that is yellow with age. It is sitting on a small side table with a hand-carved top that looks like mountains next to the sea.

And then I see what can only be described as a rocking chair, made of oak with an upholstered seat cushion with none other than a monkey climbing a tree wearing pantaloons and a shirt and vest and a Barret with a gold medallion on it. On the top of the chair, the headrest is ornately carved with the legend OF MEMORIES PAST. For a moment, it occurs to me that I might actually be asleep and dreaming. And that none of this is real.

I run my hands over the smooth oak arms. It is like glass. And although it is clear that is a very old chair, it is also apparent that whomever this chair belonged to took care of it with loving hands and heart. I fondly look at the image of the monkey in the tree. He looks as if he is looking directly at me with an all-knowing look. I’m tempted to sit down in the rocker. It is such a strong impulse I decide to take a chance. I look carefully over the chair to make sure there are no loose joints and that the seat is firmly attached. It is in pristine condition. But I know that the glow of the wood indicates that many hands and arms have rested here in this chair and found peace and comfort.

I gently sit down on the seat and slide, and sit back as far as I can. I lay back my head on the back of the chair and closed my eyes. I take several deep breaths. And the chair begins to rock back and forth slowly. It seems as if the chair has a life of its own. I begin to relax, and I feel completely safe and sleepy. I nod off.

I awaken, and I find myself in one of the bedrooms downstairs. I’m standing in front of a mirror. I’m wearing an apron over a dress that falls several inches below my knees. I have heavy stockings on my legs and black boots with low heels and shoelaces tied all the way up over my ankle. I look at my face in the mirror, and I don’t recognize the face in the mirror, and yet I know it’s me, somehow.

My hair is long and dark. It is pulled back into a complicated bun on the back of my head. There is a silver hair clip holding my hair in place. I move closer to the mirror, and I see that my eyes are light blue and reflect intelligence and humor somehow. It looks as if I could burst out laughing at any moment. There are small perfect pearls on my earlobes. I walk over to the closet and open the door, and I see similar clothes as I’m wearing. Some are plain, and there are some far in the back that is ornate and in bright colors.

I walk over to the bed, and I see a picture of a younger woman who bears a resemblance to the face that I saw in the mirror. It must be a photo of her younger self. She is standing next to a young man who has his arm around her waist. And he is looking at her with what could only be described as love and devotion. And for some unknown reason, I feel deep sorrow and loss.

I walk across the room and look in the other closet. I open the door only to find that it is empty. I feel the same sense of emptiness and loss. I realize that the young man is no longer among the living.

The next thing I remember is walking to the narrow door in the hallway that leads to the attic and opening the door, and walking slowly up the staircase. And then I sit down on the rocker and close my eyes and breathe deeply and feel sleepy.

I wake up to find myself groggy and sleepy and not knowing exactly where I am or what I’m doing here. I hear someone calling out to me, “Miss, miss, you have to wake up now. Other people are waiting to come in. Wake up now.”

I slowly open my eyes to find a large woman with bright, red curly hair saying.

” Wake up, wake up, miss.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I just sat down for a moment. I didn’t sleep well last night. I must have drifted off. I would like to purchase this chair and the Snake candle holder.”

“Of course, take this ticket downstairs to the woman sitting at the card table. Tell her you wish to purchase these items. And then, you can bring the receipt up here and take your items. You’ve made a very good choice with this chair and the candle holder. The chair belonged to the lady of the house. She was given this chair when she was expecting her first child, and she used to sit there and write in her diary in the evening by a candle when she wasn’t rocking her babies.

Later in life, after her husband passed away and her children left home, she would sit here and rock in the evening and write in her diary or read books. You know, the strange thing is that you bear a strong resemblance to her, except for the fact that she had dark hair, and your hair is light. And she had those startling light blue eyes, and your eyes are dark blue.

“Thank you, I’ll go down and pay for these items and be right back.”

“Alright, I’ll wait here for you.”

Less than ten minutes later, I returned to the attic, and the woman was looking out the attic window, still waiting for me. “Oh, good, there you are. I have your two items here. I hope you will enjoy them for many years. You might want to look up the history of the family to see if you are related to the Carlisle family. There really is a strong resemblance.”

“You know, I think your right. I feel a strong attachment to the chair and the candle holder. And actually, to this house. I wouldn’t be surprised to find I am related to this family. I picked up the chair and the candlestick holder and carefully made my way down the narrow steps, and in a few minutes, I found myself walking out the back door and into the back garden. It, too, felt so familiar to me, especially the arbor covered in grapevines over the picnic table.

Although I couldn’t recall ever being here before, I made a promise to myself to investigate the Carlisle family. I know that somehow, I’m connected to them and that the young woman in the mirror was a relative that had reached out to me and wanted me to have her precious rocking chair and the memories that it held.

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HATS ON AND ON AND ON TO INFINITY

It’s just another ordinary day. I wasn’t expecting anything unusual to happen. My alarm rings at 7:47 am right on the dot. I dangle my legs over the side of the bed and let them hang there for a bit just to get the circulation back.

Cowboy Hats by Paul Br751

I start making the bed, and as I get out of bed, I straighten the sheets and then the Cowboy comforter. I smile, just looking at that bedspread. I can’t believe how lucky I was to find it on eBay. I’ve looked for one for twenty years. I owned one when I was a kid, but my mother gave it away when I was sixteen. She said I was too old for a cowboy bedspread. Can you imagine? Too grown-up for cowboys, ridiculous.

I walk the twenty-seven steps to my bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. I take off my hat and look at the top of my head that clearly has less hair this morning than it did yesterday. I sigh. Oh well, what can you do? I get out my mustache kit. I comb it straight down and then trim each hair one at a time. I comb it seven times I try to be vigilant about the length and the shape.

You just can’t let yourself go to hell, right? I decide tonight I will touch up the gray a little. Not all of it, of course, I like to look my best, but no one’s going to believe that someone that is sixty-seven doesn’t have some gray hair in his stache. I jump into the shower and wash and rinse myself seven times. I put on my clothes and look in the mirror. Not bad, I think.

I pull up my bamboo socks, you wouldn’t believe how comfortable they are, and your feet can breathe. And the Piece De Resistance is my hand-made vintage Lee Miller boots. They cost a pretty penny, but believe me, they were worth it. They are hand-stitched with red hearts and inlaid white patches. I  feel like a million bucks.

This makes it even more difficult for me to understand why I can’t find a woman to keep me company in the sunset of my years. After all, I’m not bad-looking, have some money in the bank and own a home with no mortgage. What more could any woman want? Plus, I’m very, very neat, and a dam good cook to boot.

I set the table for two, I live alone, but I’m optimistic. I take two steps to the right and then two steps back. And take my seat, as I eat my bowl of Peanut Butter Captain Crunch. I consider where I might purchase my next hat. My plan is to buy a Brick Cowboy Hat, which is similar to a cattleman cowboy hat but has a squarer crown. I also have to pick up my Gambler Cowboy hat because I left it at the hat shop to be blocked. It‘s a little too big for my head now that I have less hair. So, I’m having it resized.

I wash and rinse the cups and bowls twenty-seven times and put them away. Today is the third day of the week in the third week of the month, so it’s time to go out and buy a new cowboy hat. I decide to shop at my old standby Cowtown Cowboy Outfitters. I received an email informing me that they received some new hats just last week. And luckily, Zane Western Apparel is only about a quarter of a mile from Cowtown. And that is where my Gambler Hat is being blocked. What a great day this is going to be.

As I head towards Cowtown, I decide that while I’m buying my new hat, I’ll peruse the flea market. And then enjoy barbeque ribs for lunch. I realize that I’m humming my favorite tune. “Whoopie Yippie e. Hurrah.”

I see the sign for Cowtown, and my heart starts beating a little faster, “Yippee Ky O Ky Yea.” I yell at the top of my voice.

I disembark from my 1965 Shelby-Made Mustang. I step back three steps and sidestep five and take a long look at my baby. It’s cherry red and pristine. I love it like I loved my mother. It’s 10:45 am. I take a deep breath and stare at the Cowtown Cowboy. It’s one of my favorite icons of all time.

The cowboy had a lariat in his hand, but people kept trying to swing from it. So, they took off the lariat. I decided to peruse the flea market. I enjoy looking through the now worn and somewhat tattered stalls. Why? You ask it’s probably just a bunch of Chinese imports. Nothing is made in America anymore. Because it is part of my tradition, and that is reason enough for me.

I pick up a genuine replica of a Colt 45. I’m not a gun enthusiast, but it’s part of the Cowboy tradition. Still, I put it down and keep walking. And then I see in the distance a woman, a goddess, really. She’s wearing full cowgirl tradition. She has on amazing boots, and tight blue jeans with a red flannel shirt and matching red scarf. And the Piece de ’resistance, a creamy white Stetson hat.

I nonchalantly walk toward the table where she is standing. It’s a table covered in bright neck scarfs. I casually glance at a sky blue one and pick it up and feel the texture and put it in the light to get a better look. She looks over at me and smiles. I look at her, and I notice she has the most astonishing blue eyes. I almost gasp out loud. I smile and say, “that scarf would look great on you. It’s the exact color of your eyes.

She glances at me, and takes off the scarf, and says, “thanks, that’s a good choice.” I want to continue the conversation. But as usual, this is where I usually get tongue-tied. I continue, anyway. “Say, I was just going to get some bar-b-que ribs for lunch, would you be interested in joining me?”

“Lunch, sure, I guess that would be nice. I’m getting a little bit hungry.”  We head on over to Dutch Country Barbeque. She stops along the way and looks at tables at the wares. We arrive at the restaurant. A somewhat loud but friendly woman yells out. “Find a seat and sit-down folks. I’ll be right there.”

So, she has a seat, and then I take two steps to the right and two to the left and sit down. She gives me a funny look. I sit down and begin to move the salt and pepper into the right position. And then move the barbeque sauces next to each other. I take out a clean hand wipe and wipe the table down. I get another funny look. I begin to feel that uh-oh feeling. That I get when I notice people think I’m weird. But I don’t know what it is that I’m doing wrong.

“Well, I guess I should introduce myself. My name is Robert Leroy Cassidy. But everyone calls me Butch. May I ask your name?”

“My name is Sue Ellen Bassett. I own a small ranch about twenty miles south of here. I raise and train horses for the Rodeo here. Wait a minute, did you just tell me your name was Butch Cassidy?”

“Well, yes, is that a problem?”

“No, it’s just you know Butch Cassidy was an outlaw. Are you a descendent or something?”

“No, I had my name legally changed to Butch Cassidy when I was thirty. He was kind of a hero to me, growing up.”

“A hero, but was an outlaw?’

“Well, yes, technically, I guess that’s true. He lived by the code of the old west. It was a different time.  People lived by different rules. You know live by the gun die by the gun.” I watched her face carefully as I related this information to her.

She starts clearing her throat. It looks like she’s going to make a run for it. “Wait, I know this sounds crazy, but I’m not crazy, I just have a thing for the old west, and the gunslingers back then. That’s all. I’m not an outlaw. I‘m a retired insurance salesman from Texas. By the way, what’s your name?” I see her face relax a little.

“My name is Etta Thompson. Do you come to Cowtown very often?

“Well, about once a month, if I’m picking up a new hat.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. Do you collect hats?”

I smile, I think ok she doesn’t seem to think that’s odd. And so, I continue.” Well, yes, I do. I collect cowboy hats. And other kinds of Western paraphernalia. But my main interest is hats.”

“Well. Everyone has hobbies, and collecting hats seems a harmless enough activity. I enjoy collecting brass bells. I have about five hundred. I had more, but I sold some of them on eBay recently because I was running out of room in my house.”

“Oh, how did you start collecting bells?”

“I go to estate sales because I enjoy looking at older homes. I started to collect bells, so I had a reason to keep going to the sales. Basically, I’m curious about how other people live and the things they accumulate over a lifetime. People are fascinating to me.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m drawn to that many people, or that I  like to talk to most people. There are very few people that I’m attracted to, I mean to feel a connection “ I feel my face getting red, can you imagine still blushing when you’re over sixty years old.

“That’s alright, I know what you mean.”

At that point, the waitress comes over. “So, what can I get you to drink? Do you need the menus, or do you know what you want?”

“Well, I would like a sweet tea and the lunch special barbeque.”

“Me too.”, Butch says and blushes.

After the food arrives, they both dig in and don’t really say anything until they finish eating. Butch feels comfortable with Etta, a rare occurrence. They both sign push their plates away and sigh simultaneously. Then they both chuckle at the same time. “That was good, says Etta.”

“Delicious as usual,” says Butch.

“Well, what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon, Butch?”

“First, I’m going to pick up a hat I’m having blocked, and then I’m going to Zane Apparel and purchase a Gambler Hat that I’ve wanted to buy for a long time.’

“That sounds like fun?”

“Would you like to come along?”

“I would love that, but I’m meeting with some guys about a horse they want me to train. I would love to get together again. In fact, I would like to invite you to come over and see my ranch. I’m really proud of it.”

As Butch starts to rise out of his chair, he lays down a twenty-dollar bill and a tip. And he says I would enjoy that very much. Any day in particular?”

“How about on Sunday afternoon, it’s the only day I don’t have a lot of work to do on the ranch, and the weather is supposed to be spectacular. We could take a ride.”

“Take a ride? I don’t really have a great deal of experience riding, But I would love to give it a try.” Butch is secretly amazed at his own words. Not to mention that he didn’t even do the two-step when he arose from the chair or clean the whole table and stack the dishes. A big smile crosses his face.

“Fantastic. Here are my card and cell number, how about around 12:30 pm. I’m a pretty good cook if I do say so myself. I’ll make something special for us to eat.”

“Wow, I mean great, I look forward to it. I’ve had a great day. I look forward to seeing you on Sunday.”

They walk side by side out the door. Butch has never felt more alive and has a bounce to his step that he didn’t know existed before. As he is about to say goodbye, Eta leans in and kisses him on the cheek. I’ll see you then Butch; I look forward to it.”

“Me too, Eta. I look forward to it. See you Sunday.”

As he starts walking away, he says, “Hell, maybe I’ll get two new hats.”

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