Beloved Baseball

It’s a windy, brisk day in Chicago. Typical for the region in late fall. What isn’t typical are the 2 inches of slush on the ground. That’s not going to stop us. The White Sox have won their last 5 contests when we played stickball prior to the game. Superstition becomes even more important come playoff time.

Unfortunately, our last match left us low on resources. One ball snuck through an inconveniently bent sewer grate, deep enough where none of our adolescent arms were able to reach the orb floating in the dark, stinky sludge. A few innings later, our back-up sphere took a crazy, obtuse bounce over a chain link fence, rimmed with barb wire. None of us know what happens on the other side of that barrier, but it’s definitely not a standard parking garage facility.

As a result, all 6 regular participants are now on scrounging duty. I’m only aware of one baseball remaining in our house, and I’m going to have some trouble securing it.

This orb is on the mantle above the fireplace. Often, during Sox games, my mother points to it, usually for good luck, but sometimes with angry disdain. Especially then they are losing. Apparently, this keepsake has some magical powers, gained through heritage, and sentiment. Still, a baseball is a baseball when you’re 7 years old.

No one is it the living room currently. This is my chance. Approaching the hearth, I realize my assessment of the situation is correct; I’m going to need an aid. Spotting the ottoman in front of my dad’s recliner, I determine this is the closest, and most feasible, height raiser.

Moving around to the back of this cloth box, I give it a push. There’s a lot of resistance between the stout, wooden legs and the thick, shag carpet, but as I commit all my strength to the task, I feel the footrest stool move a few inches.

5 minutes later, I’ve covered the distance to mantle, my tiny heart beating in my thin chest. Ascending my prop, and extending onto my tip-toes, the treasure is mine. Operating purely on adrenaline, it takes me less than half the time to I move the furniture piece back onto position. The living room layout is identical, except for a single treasured item.

Exiting the front door with a cursory mumble to my parents, ball and glove secretly stashed in the small mesh bag hanging from the rear end of the wooden bat slung over my shoulder, I’m out the door and into to cool, crisp freedom of this gray day. My exhilarated, off-key whistling trails behind me for several block before I’m confident the coast is clear.

We’re playing today.

. . . . .

Boy, that was a great stickball game. And we didn’t even loose the object of interest.

Slapping high fives with my fellow combatants, I grab our only ball, which I conveniently provided, pounding it into my glove aggressively. Cold water splats out from the mitt. It’s been a wet contest. My palm is numb from the brisk outside temperature, thus mitigating any sting from these repeated impacts. At least I can return this bundle of rawhide, yarn, rubber, and cork to its proper place.

As I walk home, I finger the baseball in my glove, practicing the pitching grips I learned from a book my uncle gave me. It seems easy, especially with the swollen, raised red thread seams, though my small fingers can’t seem to accommodate the pitches labelled as “split finger” fastball, and “circle” change-up.

Approaching home, wet socks squishing in wetter sneakers, I formulate a plan. Based on my glovework on the way home, the ball is fairly dry. It should be easy enough to return this object, I just need to orient it in the same manner.

Entering the front door quietly, I offer a preemptive “Hi Mom, I’m home,” hoping to learn her position.

This ploy works brilliantly, as she calls back from the kitchen.

“OK, Honey. Dinner will be ready in 15 minutes. Get cleaned up.”

Perfect, the coast is clear. Stalking silently into the living room, I extract the fancy ball mount from where I stashed it in the coffee table’s sliding drawer.

Repeating my jungle gym operation from earlier, I access the mantle again, and prepare to return the baseball. I know it’s important to have the autographed portion facing out, and slightly angled upwards, as it was before. Otherwise “Frank Thomas”, and my mother, will be angry.

Examining the object in detail for the first time since I left the house, I become confused, then worried. The looping, cursive signature, black lines on white backing, is now washed-out, bleeding, and unreadable. This could be a problem.

Spotting a black, felt-tip marker on the table, I contemplate my options. My childish penmanship is poor, even on flat surfaces. No chance of keeping a steady hand on this curved sphere.

Out of options, I just place the baseball back on its turned wood bottom stand, orienting the muted signature away from the living room seats, towards the TV, then quickly place the domed glass cover on top.

My mom is going to find out at some point; it’s just a matter of time. Maybe I can convince her the Sox weren’t going to win tonight, if we didn’t play stickball in the streets this morning. This sounds like as good an excuse as any. I’m rooting for the south side regardless.

Vintage Vehicle

I’m out with my father on a Sunday drive. I cherish these weekend jaunts; it’s great to leave the smoggy congestion of the city, and open up the engine on the windy, country roads.

The older I get, the more I appreciate these adventures. It seems like I spend a lot of time on my own these days. Sitting around at home alone is no fun. I’ve always struggled to make friends.

Our mode of transportation for this adventure is a 1968 Mustang GT Fastback. Factory highland green paint job. Smooth stylish body lines. 5 spoke chrome mag wheels. Original black vinyl luxury bucket seats. Custom 390 cubic inch supercharged engine. Vintage wooden steering wheel. 4-speed manual transmission. Upgraded hi-end sound system. Black rear window louvers, with matching color parallel racing stripes across the roof and hood.

Everything about this ride is precise, pristine, and pleasurable.

Sometimes, it seems like my dad is more interested in his mechanical baby than his human babies. I’m not complaining. With three sons in the mix, this is a rare bonding opportunity, just my father and me.

As we reach a substantial hill, the tuned V8 engine roars to life, easily powering us up the incline. My entire frame rattles from the deep, rumbling vibrations. We crest the hill without letting off the gas, the entire vehicle briefly becoming weightless. It’s an exhilarating experience, reminiscent of a roller coaster ride.

The wind whistles through the open windows, circulating a cool breeze through the cockpit. Music blasts over the stereo, a classic rock song which is almost as old as I am. It’s impossible to have a meaningful conversation, which is fine with me. I’m just happy to be the center of attention.

Over time, I’ve come to realize these drives are not for family bonding, but simply an outlet for my aging father. He can take me out for a few hours, thereby gaining mental sanctuary from his wife, and the kids. I perfectly content with this weekly period of thrilling silence.

. . . . .

I’m running hot, and getting tired. We’ve covered over 100 miles of exhilarating road, exceeding 90 mph multiple times, based on my close tracking of our speed. RPMs, oil temperature, velocity, fuel and battery levels. My analytical mind monitors all these elements in real time.

We generally execute the same loop, sometimes audibling to avoid a cattle crossing, or to hit an appetizing fruit stand. Based on our current location, having just come out of an enjoyable set of chicanes, and now angling back north on the main road, we’re clearly headed home. Unfortunately, the fun is coming to an end.

Within minutes, we have exited the beautiful, tree lined asphalt of the Great Smoky Mountains, and reentered the suburbs of Knoxville, TN. I always enjoy traveling amongst the foliage, which closely matches my own attire on this sunny summer afternoon. However, my glossy coverage provides a much more vibrant sheen than the broad oak leaves and long fur needles of the forest. Now, we’re back into the land of dull, grey concrete and gaudy, illuminated billboards.

Approaching our house at a much faster rate than suggested, I sense we’re offline for the desired driveway entry. I flex as much as possible, low profile tires squishing, precise springs flexing, the entire frame tilting.

My cornering skills are too precise to miss this turn, even with a slight operator error. The nose straightens, and we align on the gravel drive with nary a skid. Brilliantly executed.

Rolling smoothly into the garage, we come to a stop in the usual position. My father always makes sure to take care on me at the end of these adventures. He wipes down my black rubber feet to a sheen, and takes a soft cloth to my glasses, leaving them sparklingly clean and clear. Worried about the current conditions, he finished by tossing a large, white polyester coat over me, for warmth and protection.

Thus, concludes my entertainment for the weekend. As the lights turn off in the garage, I’m already looking forward to next Sunday.

Collectable Cards

I’ve never seen so many spider webs. Or dead flies. At least I haven’t found a rotting mouse carcass up here yet. Or worse.

I mop my brow with the forearm of my flannel work shirt, flecks of dried paint scraping against my skin. It’s definitely way too hot up here for long sleeves, but I get squeamish around all these grippy threads of spider silk.

How did we amass all this crap as a family? We only moved into this house 12 years ago. Based on my rough assessment, it looks like we’ve piled up about a ton of junk per year. It’s actually surprising the attic floor hasn’t collapsed into our bedroom by now.

Granted, this cleaning project is nostalgic. There are some real gems up here.

My PhD graduation cap and gown, folded neatly with gold and maroon tassel still intact. My son’s first pedal bike, a neon colored item with small, knobby tires. My husband’s engraved plaque, commemorating 20-years of government service, which he received the same day as the gold watch he wears daily. My daughter’s middle school art portfolio, unrefined, but with hints of the successful painter she’s become.

Contrasting these quality items are boxes, and boxes, and boxes, of useless stuff. Kitchy knickknacks, crumbling chachkies, jumbled junk, and most worrisome, true trash. Why did I ever save this garbage?

With both my children now off at college, it’s time to tackle this monumental project. Granted, my youngest is halfway through his sophomore year, so it’s not like I got right on the task.

Three hours later, I’ve organized the massive mound into 4 manageable stacks, one for each family member. I’m fairly confident no one else in the inner circle knows what’s up here, or cares, but I’m committed to giving them one final chance to chime in.

I snap a few pictures on my cell phone camera, no close ups, just a general lay of the land for each person’s pile, and send them to the relevant parties. I’ll give my family 30 minutes to respond.

Time for a drink. A chilled glass of white wine sounds great, but I’m already on the verge of passing out in this heat. Water is probably a more prudent move.

. . . . .

Rehydrated, and refreshed, I’m back in the roasting attic. It’s been almost an hour since my texts. Definitely sufficient time for any interested party to respond.

I’m looking at 20 heaping white garbage bags, many with bulky objects like toy blocks, nursing scrubs, Halloween costumes, and golf clubs bulging out of the thin plastic at various angles. I contemplate my options for moving this absurd heap of junk.

There are 3 long flights of stairs from here to the garage, where the trash cans, and my oversized SUV, are located. Seeing the sinking sun angling in from a small circular window, the only natural light in this cramped space, I hatch a plan.

Grabbing a rusty screwdriver from the broken plastic toolbox in my husband’s “save” pile, I move towards this potential access point to the outside world. The attic walls are unfinished, just pale wooden studs, with pink insulation in between. The bottom of the window lands conveniently at my waist level.

It doesn’t appear that there is any sort of latch or hinge. In fact, based on the multitude of nails angling through the frame, this is a permanent window. This screwdriver isn’t going to be very productive; I’ll need to find a bigger tool. It’s hammer time.

After removing 4 long nails, one in each quadrant of the curved frame, with the claw end of a carpenter’s hammer, I switch back to the screwdriver. Wedging the flat end under the sill as deeply as possible, I engage my full body weight on the long lever end.

The bottom edge of the window frame yields, shifting inward. Reaching up, I catch the top portion of the glass with my off hand. Great success, simple physics still works even at these extreme altitudes, and temperatures. At least the glass didn’t fall outward.

The opening to the outdoors creates a welcome breeze, the evening Phoenix, AZ dessert air is finally cooling down. Time to finish up this project, and relax.

As I reach for the last of the bags, my phone buzzes. It’s a message from my son, showing the same picture I sent him, with a wobbly red arrow overlaid, accompanied by the word “SAVE”, in almost illegible text, like it was written by a small child, or in this case, a clumsy finger on a cellphone touch screen.

Holding my phone up, I cross reference the displayed image against the diminishing piles. Fortunately, my son’s stack was the last to head out the window to the manicured grass below. Unfortunately, the item he has identified, an elongated white box peaking out of an overstuffed plastic tote, has already left the party.

Moving over to the window, I peer out, noticing for the first time the carnage I’ve unleashed on the lawn below. It looks like someone picked up a full donation container from Salvation Army, then dropped it out of a helicopter. All manner of household items are smashed into the turf below, a colorful menagerie of junk on a background pallet of green.

Eventually, I spot the item my son asked about. The good news is that the carrier container appears to be sitting upright. However, the top of the package has fallen off in flight, causing the contents to become strewn across the landscape below. Fantasy gaming cards. I should have guessed.

With the moisture contributed by the automatic sprinklers, and the other heavy items which have rained down on these flimsy paper rectangles, there’s no hope for salvaging this box set. Whoops.

Considering I spent all day cleaning, I clearly earned the right to keep a few sentimental items. Reaching down with grimy hands, I pick up the large ceramic gnome I left by the stairwell. Granted, this item is not as valuable as a set of authentic Russian nesting dolls, but it did diligently sit on the porch guarding the house I lived in way back in college at ASU.

As soon as my daughter leaves the dorms, she’ll be acquiring this immobile sentry. One less possession to store, while also providing piece of mind. What more could a loving, downsizing, mom ask for.

Surveying the attic space once more, I give the fine metal chain attached to the light bulb a tug, and the chamber is engulfed in darkness. I can replace the window tomorrow. And my husband is on lawn clean-up duty in the morning. A shower, and a libation, are calling my name.

Sentimental Seating

I need to stretch. I’ve been lying in this same position for several hours. My muscles will start to atrophy if I don’t move soon. Plus, I need a snack.

Easing my lanky frame off the chair, my feet touch the artisan carpeted floor. I’ve always liked the Oriental print on this rug. Especially when compared to the armoire I just dropped down from, which is truly hideous.

Bright yellow is one thing, but the pea green trimming is what really takes this piece over the top. This colorway is a mix of Michelangelo from TMNT, and baby poop after an exclusive squash and zucchini puree diet. Probably closer to the later, considering the chair’s stagnant positioning, combined with it’s faded, drab colors.

I have no idea how much time I’ve spent sleeping on this furniture item. Over the years, I’ve grown increasingly happy with the comfort level, and increasingly unhappy with the hideous aesthetics.

Reaching my front appendages up, I tug at the side of the chair, mimicking the deep tears already in the fabric. Another piece of the puke green lining ribbon yields to my weight. On the third stretch, I finally achieve the required response. A shrill screech from the opposite corner of the room, where my sibling spends most of her time these days.

I’m used to this verbal abuse, and know a few random outbursts won’t precipitate any physical interaction. Undeterred, I climb back into my standard upholstery perch, making sure to generate as much noise, and fabric damage is possible. This chair needs to go.

What does an old lady need to do to get lunch around here?

Time to put on the full court press. I offer an auditory rebuttal, as equally loud and obnoxious as my sister’s shrieking. My yelling persists until my own, nearly deaf, ears are ringing. That should get her attention.

The ploy is working, as I feel the vibration of the women’s heavy frame shifting from plush recliner to rickety wooden floorboards. Apparently, her grandchildren pooled their money, and purchased this new piece of furniture for her.

Their modern taste is solid. The chair is covered with scarlet red velvet, embossed with a subtle floral pattern. The unit also appears to have both rock and recline mode. Some day that item will be mine. But for now, I need to focus on the task at hand. Food.

. . . . .

I’m stuffed. The recent meal was a lot more nourishment than I’m used to. I guess that’s what happens when I gripe enough. Maybe I should try that tactic more often. Granted, it would also be nice to not eat the same flavors for every meal.

Now I need a nap. Back to my favorite spot in the sun. I’m feeling pretty sluggish. Hopefully I can regain my high perch with the recently added weight.

On the third attempt, my full frame, even the hefty rear haunches, clear the weathered cushion. I’ve made it.

Sprawling out on the same chair I was destroying with my claws earlier; I stretch out luxuriously. This really is an amazingly comfortable piece of furniture, despite its design shortcomings. I’ve crawled up here and curled up in a ball so many times, the foam padding has become indented with my shape.

I’m glad that I didn’t have to resort to my last, extreme, tactic for gaining attention. Peeing in public is certainly not ladylike, but sometimes emergency measures need to be taken for survival, and sustenance. Fortunately, rapport between us two elderly women has been good in recent years.

Before I doze off, I glance over at my roommate with a glassy green eye. She’s plopped back down in her own chair, a homemade patchwork quilt covering her bulky lower half. Her eyes are closed, and the first tiny chortles of an inevitable snoring regimen are already forming. It seems like both of us have been sleeping a lot more lately as we grow old together.

I cover my eyes, and the exposed ear, with a hairy paw, hoping to drown out both the light and noise simultaneously. Full and content on the soft, ugly, tattered upholstery, soaking up the sun’s warming rays, a rarity here in Vermont during the winter, I’m asleep within minutes.

Cherished Coins

The rows of tables extend seemingly into infinitum. All manner of items are being sold. It’s highly unlikely anyone is going to find my tiny booth in this massive hall. I have no idea why I’m even here as a vendor.

Wait, now I remember. My nagging wife told me I could increase income with these Sunday morning flee market sessions, a traditionally slow time at the pawn shop.

I can envision her still lying in bed, sleeping contently, while I’m here, groggy eyed and bored, at 8 AM, working on my 3rd cup of cheap black coffee. She’s even cut me off from my Sunday morning greasy diner regiment, for health reasons, so she claims. It’s pretty clear who’s wearing the pants in this relationship.

Finally waking up as the caffeine kicks in, I peruse the landscape. There can’t be more than 10 people per acre in this expansive warehouse space right now, with an average age well over 50. Not picky, I’ll take any client at this point.

Despite this crappy sales venue arrangement, I’ve still brought an impressive spread of merchandise. There are a few items I can’t travel without; so rare, and lucrative, that I can’t afford to not have them if the right buyer comes along. I’m perpetually an optimist in this regard, despite my Jewish heritage.

With pride, I look down at my display case. Shatter proof, transparent polycarbonate, pristinely wiped down, covers a 10-gauge stainless steel bin, 4 inches deep, 2 feet wide, and 3 feet long. The client facing side of the top is attached to the base with sturdy hinges, mounting executed by taper-proof rivets. The box can be opened only from my side, provided you know the access code to the heavy padlocks on both near corners, and have the key for the rotating connector latch in the middle.

If necessary, I can drop this entire setup to the ground, and it quickly turns into a tamper-proof rolling suitcase, via the caster wheels underneath. This form of protection is likely a little overkill for the local flee market. But the contents of my case warrant such a level of protection.

While industrial and rugged as a transport system, the product display itself is classy and elegant. Blue corduroy covers the bottom of the case. A thin layer of ultra-soft carpet padding underneath the fabric allows the weights of the various pieces to be assessed based on how much they deflect the compliant bed.

I’ve experimented with a variety for liners: traditional green poker table felt, textured Berber carpet, tightly stretched black silk, stark white glossy Teflon. The soothing color of the corduroy fabric, and the clean, linear pattern, has proven to offer the best combination of visual appeal, scale reference, and product protection.

In this regard, I’ll unfortunately have to concede some credit to my wife; her sewing skills have helped spruce up our display case presentation after many iterations.

As I look down at the case, glints of gold, silver, and bronze flash back at me. Despite the terrible florescent lights in this cavernous space, these collectable coins shine.

At my retail establishment, the track lighting is meticulously placed, designed to highlight specific pieces. Here, in this bland, neutral environment, I need to use my sales skills. That shouldn’t be an issue, provided anyone with a pulse in their chest, and cash in their pocket, approach this morning.

I settle back onto the hard, folding chair provided with the rental space, and prepare for a long wait.

. . . . .

All the beautiful coins are still in their specified place, neat and orderly. And my ass is now completely numb. But what an impressive collection I have out for display.

My miserly laments are interrupted by a shadow flashing across the glint of the immaculate top surface. My instincts take over, one hand moving to the tumbler key lock which secures the case, the other to the holster at my hip. This Colt 38 revolver, another antique, is fully permitted for concealed carry here in Nevada of course. Better to keep everything above board in the pawn shop industry.

Simultaneously, I slowly raise my gaze to observe the approacher. My steely gaze is met, but not by anyone I could have anticipated. The person standing across from me can’t be more than 14 years old, though I have difficulty judging the age of teenagers, and African-Americans. Plus, my upbringing has taught me not to guess the age of women, or girls, in this case.

Skepticism quickly turned to admiration. The next 20 minutes are some of the most engaging of my life. We discuss every piece on display, some of which this young lady knows more than me about. Impressive, since I’ve been studying the numismatic field for three decades, while she can’t have been able to read for more than one.

I’m so distracted, I don’t realize that the assembly hall has gotten crowded. Including a gaggle of gawkers around my own booth. I would love to chat all day with this bright individual, but I have a business to run. Time to pay the rent. Still, she’s definitely earned her rite of passage.

Thinking back through our exhilarating conversation, I select the article which this girl seemed the most enamored by, completely ignoring the value of the piece for the first time in my life.

I pass the coin across to her, nestled in the one of my signature black suede bags, secured by a gold cord drawstring, and emblazoned with my signature “JS PS” entangled script logo. As the small package drops into her hand, I can tell she wants to reciprocate. I shake my head vigorously before she can speak; her engagement and escape from boredom is all that I could ask for on this weekend morning. My business card is inside the satchel, in case she has interest in continuing this deep conversation between two connoisseurs of collectables.

The dark-skinned girl nods in appreciation, and turns back towards the center of the massive convention space. Immediately, I direct my attention to the patrons piling up in front of my booth. An opportunity a flashy salesman like myself would never turn down.

Minutes later, business is booming. These tourists like their coins apparently. Just when I think I can’t get any more surprised, my phone buzzes. I’ve got a message to confirm a digital token transfer. What does that mean? It must be a scam.

Looking up, I see my new friend waving to me, cell phone in one hand, the contact card I gave her in the other. She points to her phone with a tender, black finger, and I respond by making the same motion with my wrinkled, white appendage.

I have no idea what cryptocurrency is, but if 100-year-old money has value, then money that will be valuable in a century is also worth collecting. As a precious metals investor, it’s important to stay up on market trends.

Wonderful Wine

I’m posted up in the corner, as usual. It’s my favorite spot in the cellar, and I spend a lot of time in this position. It’s usually quiet, comfortable, and secluded.

The walls are lined with bottles of wine. Lots of wine. The color, shape, and size of the glass containers varies widely. Many are covered with a thick layer of dust, masking elegant labels which describe the choice nectar within.

The floor is tile, not the cheap ceramic type, but dark slate, laid slightly raised in equally dark concrete. This stone floor, combined with the red brick walls, could survive a bombing raid. Or an earthquake, which would be a more likely occurrence here in California.

This wine collection has been decades on the making. We have bottles here from 5 of the 7 continents. Grape vines do have their climate limitations. I’ve mentally tallied the value of the wine in this room many times. Sure, it’s no Fort Knox, but the structure is solid, and the internal contents very valuable.

Switching back from inventory to observation mode, I survey the scene.

In front of me are 6 of my colleagues. They’ve definitely been drinking. Not the excellent selection of libations this cave has to offer, but domestic light beer swill.

Fortunately, the most expensive wine is slotted in behind my position, inaccessible without some hard work. I take my post as a security guard seriously.

Though the temperature down here is a cool 55°C, I’m thinly clad. Much like my compatriots. Apparently, there was a sale on tank tops and board shorts at the local store. No sun is penetrating this secluded cellar, but the beaches of the Pacific Ocean are less than an hour from this Paso Robles, CA wine country mansion.

Based on the golden sand these lads are shedding onto the midnight slate from their flip-flop clad feet, I’m guessing they spent the day surfing, and are now in party mode, likely after a long day of UV-ray absorption with minimal food nourishment. This operation might deteriorate quickly.

Looking around at the sketchy crew amassed, my anxiety as chaperone starts to build. However, these monkeys are welcome to hang out down here as long as they want. I smile imperceptibly, knowing the three security cameras are discretely capturing their every move.

. . . . .

Two hours later, my prediction is proving to be quite accurate. It smells like stale beer down here. Again.

The original crew of a half dozen athletic young adults has dwindled down to two are still vertical. Barely. That’s what a marathon session of beer pong will do.

These lads are larger, and slightly less inebriated, than their friends, who are already passed out in various incredibly uncomfortable looking positions. One slumps awkwardly wedged in the corner, held up by a row of protruding corked carafes of chianti. Another pair passed out seated back to back on the ground right next to me; apparently this was some feat of strength challenge gone wrong. The fourth individual is almost completely out of sight. All I can see are his hairy, tan legs sticking out from behind a shipment of wooden wine crates that just arrived New Zealand. That poor guys going to be cold when he wakes up.

A casual, silent, sober observer, I’m pretty sure the final duo isn’t far behind their friends.

Suddenly, I sense a disturbance in the force. The taller, and drunker, remaining participant has apparently lost his balance, chasing after a stray ping pong ball.

I watch the small white orb roll across the black floor, its minimal weight often manipulated by all the contours, cracks, and crevasses in the rustic stone tiles.

Unfortunately, this boy is so fixated on the chase that he fails to realize the rack of vintage wine bottles he’s approaching. 1980’s Napa Valley cabernets. As the white ball slips silently and stealthily out of sight, the lad’s larger, but equally white, forehead, forges ahead, until it strikes an immovable object.

The combination of earthen brick, sturdy hardwood, and antique glass, easily wins the contest. A stunned human lies on the floor of the cellar, while the stand of high-end wine sits undeterred, incurring nary a shutter or vibration.

The inanimate objects are successful again. If I could put my squatty, wood stave, metal ringed midsection on his back I would, but I don’t have any arms. Another crisis averted. Granted, there’s not much I can do to retaliate, unless one of these fools rolls my hefty frame onto their sandal exposed toes.

Still, someone’s father is not going to be happy when he finds out about the partying going on down here. I’m never one to snitch, but can already feel the moisture rings being imprinted on my top by the beer-soaked Solo cups. Those are going to leave a mark, even if these drunkards clean up the red plastic evidence later. Which is unlikely.

No worries about the valuable contents inside at least. This sturdy barrel construction is impenetrable, protecting the aging liquid within, while imparting subtle notes of vanilla and oak. In a few years, this wine will be fit to join its siblings on the racks.

Dazzling Dress

I thought moth balls were just an internet meme. Apparently, they are a real, and smelly, physical thing. This entire closet smells like old people, chloroform, and wet carpet. My chances of getting laid tonight are diminishing by the minute.

As I hang back hesitantly, my grandma dives deep into the closet, her 5-foot nothing frame accessing depths of the alcove that my sturdy 6-foot build would struggle to reach. Daintiness has never been one of my strengths.

I’m sure there’s no way the dress she’s searching for is going to fit me, assuming it’s still in one piece.

This is the most important day of my young life. I should be with my girlfriend’s, getting our hair done as a group. Instead, I’m over here at my Tutu Wahine’s house, rooting around for apparel that hasn’t seen the light of day in half a century.

I would ask my mom to help extract me from this situation, but unfortunately, she’s no longer with us, so all I can do is look skyward, and pray.

When I told my grandmother, one of the only adult female confidents in my life, I was headed to the Senior Prom, I saw the glint in her oft dark grey eyes, and knew I was committed. I definitely didn’t know what I was getting roped into.

I watch in a mix of giddy anticipation, and impending terror, as the wall of floral print blouses, grass skirts, and colorful silk scarves shifts to and fro, while various reserved expletives drift out from the depths of the space. I’ll give this old woman credit for her passionate spirit, a trait I’m happy to have inherited.

My close relation, two generations removed, extracts herself from the depths, scrawny wrinkled hand grasping a hanger from which a plastic sheathed item of indeterminable color, design, and shape hangs.

Without a word, my elder mentor passes across to the bed, simultaneously extracting the garment from its cover. Revealed is a glowing turquoise dress, the same color as the clear oceans of our Hawaiian homeland.

Contrast by the bright white of the comforter on the bed, and highlighted by the rays of sun glinting through the bedroom windows, the classy outfit shimmers, and its intricate details come into focus. The shiny silver sequins, strategically placed. The lacy black trim, delicate and refined. The contrasting pink embroidery, intricate in design.

I am completely amazed. There’s only one concern. Can I squeeze into this wonderful outfit?

. . . . .

15 minutes later, I’m still in the bathroom, making various bodily adjustments. I’m very close with my grandmother, but not close enough to let her see me is all my feminine glory. I’ve been able to get back of the dress zipped up on my own, which is a definite morale boost. The fabric hasn’t torn, and the metal tines are holding my girth this far.

My matriarch must have been taller, and plumper, in her younger years, though the back of skirt is creeping up a bit more that I would usually be comfortable with. Still, this attire may actually work.

However, I’m definitely going to need to use some modern-day underwear technology. Looking at my visage in the full-length mirror, there are awkward bulges in my breasts, stomach, and hips that need controlling. Still, who knew the 1950’s had so much to offer from an aesthetic beauty standpoint?

My date is going to be a lucky man. Provided I can make it to the dance on time.

It’s already late afternoon, and I’m still going to need to figure out a way to get this costume cleaned and fumigated in the next few hours. Apparently, I’ll be going au-natural with my hair tonight considering the tight timing.

Tugging at a few key regions on the garment, I’m as content as I’m going to get. Time for the big reveal.

Shyly, I flip the latch on the door, and exit the secluded privacy of the bathroom. My grandma is sitting in the rocking chair by the window, right where I left her a while ago.

As I approach, she lets out an audible gasp. Concerned, I rush over, thinking she must be injured. As I get to her side, she is crying, but I quickly realize these are tears of joy, not pain.

Silently, she reaches over to the bedside table, and picks up a picture in an ornate gold frame. It’s larger than a normal photo, portrait size.

Passing to object to me, I look down at the image. It’s shows a beautiful Samoan woman posing under a palm tree. The ocean beach setting is lovely, but I’m immediately entranced by the person in the photograph. Her dark brown hair is pinned up in a left side bun, secured with wooden sticks, the presentation completed by a large tropical flower. The bronze skin of her shoulders is exposed, perfectly contrast by the vibrantly colored dress. A turquoise dress, with black lace trimmings.

I realize this is the outfit I have on. Which means this elegant woman is my grandmother.

“Wedding day,” she acknowledges in her soft voice, sensing the slow realization based on my facial expressions.

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” I’m able to offer in a choked reply. Now, it’s my turn to cry. How have I never seen this picture before?

Handing the framed memento back, and wiping my eyes, I stand tall and proud, facing my still-seated idol. Now knowing the origin of this clothing, I feel like I need to earn her approval to wear to it tonight. I spin around twice, then do a low curtsy, which test both the stability of my wobbly legs, and the strength of the aged fabric. Fortunately, both hold.

The nod from my grandmother, combined with the glowing smile of crooked teeth she flashes me, is all the confirmation I need.

As I turn to head back to the bathroom, my grandmother rises, catching me by surprise. She passes me a plain cardboard box, similar to what they serve cinnamon rolls in at the mall. I’ve always be a sucker for presents, and instantly open the folded lid flap.

Inside is a fresh orchid, brilliant white petals, with vibrant pink spots and stamen. It’s an exact replica of the hair embellishment in the photo.

Laughing in delight, I take my tutu’s frail arm, and lead her into the bathroom. I’m no longer self-conscious about my figure. Plus, there’s no way I can replicate that wedding night hair style without some experienced help. I just need to pin my flower up on the right side for good luck.