Fiction: Seeing Fit to Shop for Antiques

One of my hobbies is "collecting" and that is often best done at antique malls. Based on my long history of antiquing and collecting, I can tell if an antique mall will be worth the time, merely by looking in the windows or through the front door.

After that cursory evaluation, entering the shop and the potential success of the visit is confirmed based on the overall smell of the antiques, the visible number of dealers, and whether there is a balance between treasures being locked up in glass-front cabinets or freely displayed on shelves.

I have a technique for perusing such malls. Usually, I go clockwise in a room by running the first aisle, looking only at the booths on the left, and then returning down the same aisle visiting those on the right. Then I move clockwise to the second aisle and so on.

It is easy if the aisles back up to each other but sometimes it gets complicated if the cross aisles have booths on the cross-aisle itself. I make those decisions as necessary. Another logistics problem is when another room branches off the main one in no particular order. One can get disoriented in finding one's way back to the main room of the mall without having to visit any one booth more than once as well as making sure to not miss anything.

I can tell from standing in the aisle whether it will be worthwhile entering the booth itself. I stand at the head of the booth and scan the contents. If things catch my eye, I enter and spend some time looking around. If the items in the booth are mostly those which do not interest me, I do not even enter and move to the next booth.

If all of the items are locked up in neatly arranged in glass-front cabinets, I usually avoid that booth. I hate not being able to touch the items, especially if I am interested in them. It is a pain to have to call an employee over, tell them what you want to see, they go back to the front to get the cabinet keys, they return to unlock the cabinet. The rule of thumb is that you tell them what you want to look at and they get it out of the cabinet. Shoppers are not allowed to reach into the cabinet for fear of clumsily starting an avalanche.

If the booth is so loaded that it looks like it will be easy to knock things over or fall over myself, I avoid it. If the booth is already occupied by another shopper, I hold back. If it is being spruced up by the owner, I keep going as I do not like confrontation or after a lovely exchange feeling obligated to make a purchase.

On one Antique Mall adventure, the one over by the river which consists of "over 40 dealers," I came across a box of glass eyes somewhere in the middle of the shop. As I picked up the box, I assumed that they were for animal taxidermy purposes but on closer examination, I realized that they were replacement eyes, glass eyes, for people who had lost an eye and after medical examination would be fitted with an eye that they could "pop" into their empty eye socket so they would look more socially acceptable to others (and maybe to themselves.)

This particular booth was on the left middle of the third aisle. As I was coming back down the aisle, visiting the right booths, I notice an older man in the glass eye booth holding the box of glass eyes that I had just looked at. He was studying the box intently. Then he held it close to his face, mumbling to himself as he looked.

He put the box back on the shelf and proceed to touch each eye. There were large ones and smaller ones; brown, blue, green, and various shades in between. It was almost like he was having a conversation or a love affair with the box of glass eyes.

I continued my journey up and down the aisles, left and right, a brief stop at a cross-aisle booth then back to the up, down, left, and right. I found a few items to purchase and headed to the checkout counter towards the front of the mall. I paid for my items. They wrapped them carefully and handed me a small shopping bag with my purchased contents.

As I turned to go, I realized that the man I had observed earlier was behind me ready to make his purchase. Sure enough, he had the box of glass eyes, lid firmly in place, under his arm. What I had failed to notice the first time is that in his right hand he clutched a white cane. I will leave the rest to your imagination as it has been in mine.

A Chilling Story

She was just humming away doing what she had been doing for years, protecting those put in her charge. She was able to do this by nature, by habit, without needing to think about the details. Knowing that she could fulfill her responsibilities so easily gave her a certain peace of mind. She did what she had to do and she did it well.

Suddenly, maybe only in her imagination, she skipped a beat. Then another. Then she stopped altogether. Damn, it wasn't her imagination. Something inside was happening and it was bad!

It was another electrical outage and her motors slowed to a stop.

This had happened several times before and she and those for which she was in charge survived. But she was still worried about the frozen items below and the refrigerated items above: on the shelves and in the baskets, on the door and in the drawers and bins.

If the others trusted her and didn't open the door to see how she was doing, they could make it. Several times before it had been a close call but there had been no fatalities. Everyone had been saved. Would she get through this time and would all survive? Only time would tell and as usual, she was nervous.

In the darkness, here and there, she could feel a drop of water fall. A little loss of moisture would cause no harm but too much and it was doomsday for so many of her constituents, her wards, what she affectionately like to call her children.

They were all so susceptible to change. She knew that if they stuck together, huddled closely, they could keep each other comfortable and free from falling apart. It was a physical feeling, not emotional, but none-the-less, her emotions ran high at the potential for failure.

Suddenly the door opened and the light from the kitchen poured into the view. It was only a second so the milk could leave for someone's coffee and the door closed quickly afterwards. It opened once more, milk was replaced, and quickly closed again. They were being smart about the situation and that would help the outcome.

An hour or two went by without any more light disturbances. Actually, who could count the minutes or hours in the dark? Then there was a flicker of light, a spark of a motor hum and then nothing.

Again a few minutes later there was that familiar, hopeful flicker and spark. And sure enough, things began to run and she was able to get back to normal, on target.

She ran her motors in the dark to regain the lost degrees and eventually was able to stop. Some time passed and the door opened again briefly, the others were checking to make sure everything was OK. And it was.

Cooperation, community, intelligence, and stick-to-it-ness won the day and all were back where they needed to be. Ah, cool, calculated relief.

Gregory's Place

There is a little plot of unused land about a block from the condo as you walk west on Davis Street. I had this idea about creating a little memorial park but since I do not own the land, will probably not follow through with it:

A bench sits against each of the brick side walls of the little park's adjoining buildings. The park is no more than nine feet deep and twelve feet wide. The view at the back of the park is protected by a ten-foot wooden fence. To the west is a convenience store and to the east is a vintage vinyl record shop. It is located just a little way down from the METRA commuter entrance.

The ground of the park is covered with red-colored, finely shredded, cedar bark. In each corner, there is a square, common brick planter maybe two feet high, planted with Redbud Trees and surrounded with green ivy, some of which is trailing over the sides.

A plack on the east wall, near the sidewalk, says,
"In Memory of Gregory Maire, he loved his garden."

Another plack, on the west wall, says,
"Welcome to Gregory's Place. Sit, rest, and breathe awhile.
All we really have is our breath and that ends all too quickly."

A Shadow and Its Tree

"Why," asked Shadow, "Am I so crooked and pointy and flat, when you Tree, are so soft and woody and tall?"

"Perhaps," answered Tree, "it is your perspective, how you are looking at yourself, what you see when you look closely. You are a reflection of me so you should feel soft and woody as well! Often we see ourselves through the eyes of others, is that what you are doing? Through the eyes of people walking by, through joggers, through squirrels and birds and deer?"

"Well, what I do see is crooked and pointy and also black with shades of gray. I try to see woody colors, browns and tans, but cannot. Teach me Tree, teach me!"

"Look closer, I would advise you. I stand here with my feet firmly planted on the ground, my roots reach deep into the earth as I look to the past. My branches reach far out towards the sky as I look to the future. I am both the past and the future at the same time ― but more, but more than that, I am the present. It is cold, the snow has fallen, my leaves have left me for the time being, and I stand here. I just am, I just am."

"I could try that. 'I am shadow. I am a reflection of your browns and tans. I am a reflection of my past and future but mostly I am my present right now with you. I have no leaves, I see the fallen snow, I just am, just am.' "

"What's more is I might become many things yet," added Tree. "When spring comes I will support green leaves again and birds and small animals will run through my branches. I will feel the gentle breezes, the falling rain dripping down my trunk and the sun warming me.

"Also," Tree continued, "I might become something altogether different. I might become part of a table on which to nourish families when they sit down to dinner. I might become a stair tread or a ladder which will help people reach higher than they usually could by themselves. I could become fuel for fire; to cook, heat, or light the way for someone.

I might become part of a wall of a house which will protect others from the cold, or the heat, or the rain, or the snow. I might become a box in which to help someone return to the earth where my roots started and where theirs will end ―and all of that right now reflects who you could become as well!

"Thank you Tree, I feel better about myself. And I," said Shadow, "will become those things with you!"

(Photograph and idea for story from Steven Skinner, http://blacktreestudio.com )

M A R I O N E T T E

Walking down a distant cobble stone street in a distant arrondissement in Paris, I came across a narrow alley over which a weather beaten, powder blue, oval sign with faded black letters that simply spelled 

M A R I O N E T T E, squeaked and waved and rusted in the breeze.

I entered the narrow, dark passageway which led to a somewhat brighter courtyard area in which there was a toy shop with its dusty, dirty, fogged window filled with objects that would delight any child (or adult for that matter.)

The door to the shop was open and I could see in as the aged proprietor was bent over one of his creations trying to mend the twisted and knotted strings of the handsome male dancer marionette. He looked up and noticed me noticing him.



At first I felt embarrassed for spying on the old man at work but realized he did not see it that way. He smiled and with his arthritic hand motioned for me to come into the shop. He invited me to poke around at my leisure and to feel free to ask him or his wife any questions that I might have.

On the wall, hanging in a line behind him, were beautiful hand made marionettes including people (kings - queens - mothers - fathers - children,) performers (jugglers - dancers - magicians - singers,) animals (pets - farm - zoo - circus,) and other marionette objects as well (buildings - trees - stop lights - cars.)

To his left was an old, abused, leaning wooden workbench covered with open and closed tins and plastic bottles of paint, miscellaneous size sticks and lumbers, assorted heads of various races, various sized and shaped tools which were made of wood and plastic and metal.

To the old man's right was a shelf filled with old, well read, well worn books. I could tell by the titles that they covered everything from making and fixing dolls to creating a clay kind of putty to use for faces, to formulas for magic spells ... but that is a different story

Many of the toys in the toy shop were made by the old man and his wife. He did the carving and she did the sewing. He did the forming and she did the painting. You could tell that he was a little more organized in his work and she was a little more messy. But they were a good team and their skills complimented each other. 

Not far from the old woman, who was working at her own table doing her own fixing and repairing and creating; was acabinet containing an unorganized, stuffed in collection of hand puppets. I leaned over to get a closer look and one of the most adorable puppy dog puppets began to move closer to me. I jumped back astounded before I realized that it was the couple's real puppy dog who was just doing its thing of settling in for a nap among the soft toys.

Not much conversation took place between the old man, the old woman, and me. They continued to work at their projects and I wandered around the shop investigating one marvel after another; one pile of puppets, one collection of tiny treasures, one rack of neatly lined up cars, one cabinet of furry huggable Teddy Bears, one box of colorful tops and striped balls, one marvel after another.

Through the open door of the shop, from somewhere in the courtyard outside, I began to hear the chiming of the clock tower. The clock first announced itself and then counted the hour at 5:00. 

"That clock is always a little off," commented the old woman to no one in particular. The old man and old woman stirred from their separate project preoccupations and carefully, slowly stood up, stretching in place. 

When they noticed me, it was almost as if they had forgotten or maybe never knew that I was in the shop with them. "Well," announced the old man to no one in particular, "Must be time for our tea."

"I guess I must be going then," I commented almost apologetically for having invaded their spaced and I began moving towards the door.

"No, no!" reacted the old woman. "You must join us for tea and some freshly baked scones. Do you prefer blueberry or raspberry? Please come upstairs and join us!"

"Well, I would be honored," I replied, "I have so many questions to ask you about all the wonderful things you have in your shop and about your loving work with the toys. Then after our tea, I will pick out a few items that I would like to purchase."

"Oh my. Oh my!" they both uttered in unison. The old man continues, "Nothing in the shop is for sale you know. Did you think this was a toy shop? Well it is a shop, but not that kind of shop."

"This place here is our workshop, not a for sale shop," continued the woman. "It is where we spend our time all year making and fixing toys of all sorts. Sometimes neighbor children bring in their broken items and we try to fix them but mostly the toys we work with are for giving away to the orphanage up the hill. The children there are so sweet and so need love and attention. We spend most of our days making and fixing toys for them."

As we climbed the narrow, creaking stairway to their living quarters, the old man whispered, "If you would like to have a toy or two I suppose that would be OK. You strike me as a person, like my wife and me, who still has a lot of the child about them. Do you take milk in your tea?"

• • •

This fiction story introduced itself to me in a dream the other night. The parts of the dream which I remembered had to do with the Paris passageway, the shop, and the live puppy which I at first thought was one of the puppets in the shop. The rest I created as a writing exercise.

This is my first attempt at this kind of writing. In my mind I pictured what each step of  the story might be like and then I wrote that paragraph. The next paragraph was created after I purposefully thought about it or after an idea that just seemed to come to me unexpectedly showed up; like the ending that the shop is not really a shop. After a paragraph was written, I either searched the internet or my own photographs for an illustration.

I created the old man and old woman and in some ways I am not only the visitor to the shop but also both of the characters I created, also I love raspberry and blueberry scones!

Post Script Comments: He was right about there being a lot of the child still in me! It is very apparent in my home as well as in my attitude. Check out my museum, Michael's Museum: A Curious Collection of Tiny Treasures, which has been a permanent exhibit at Chicago Children's Museum on Navy Pier since May of 2011. 

http://www.michaelsmuseum.org 

(opens in a new window)

Alzheimer's

It is so hard to write fiction when non-fiction life continues to unfold fiction-like.

I still find it easier to write about Alzheimer's and the path on which Gregory and I continue to walk, than to create "stories" about life.

The Alzheimer's path belongs to him but when you love someone; you go into amazing, scary, deep places with them.

The Encounter

I walked down the street not thinking about much else than my walking. As I passed the alley I saw someone slumped against a dumpster. My first impulse was to keep walking. But I stopped and turned into the alley.

My hackles were up as I measured the area for danger that might be lurking there. There was none so I continued. But my defenses stayed up protectively.

When I got to the woman who had first caught my attention, I noticed that she was healthy looking, well dressed, and sleeping soundly. There did not appear to be any injury or trauma in the areas of body I could see.

I kneeled down and took a closer look. She was breathing evenly and appeared peaceful. So why was she here in this compromising, traumatic appearing situation? What had happened. Did she need my help or should I leave and continue on my way?

Was I taking a risk by trying to help, should I have just kept walking like so many others had done and continued to do. Maybe I should just call the police and let them handle this. Too many decisions.

I gently tugged at her sleeve cuff to see if I could awaken her without startling her. She responded with a slight rearrangement of her position on the alley pavement and a small sigh escaped her lips.

I tugged a second time and the response was stronger. I paused to see what would happen next and probably to think about next steps. My urge to not get involved and noting I still had time to flea the situation continued strong but my sense of "right" was stronger.

While I was processing, her eyes gently opened and she took some time to focus: on me, on her leaning on the dumpster, on the alley, on the stench that the alley brought with it.

In a calm voice I said, "Everything is OK. Your are OK." She continued to be grow in awareness of her situation but remained calm. "I found you lying here and am trying to help. Are you OK? Are you OK?"

She smiled and said, "Thank you. Yes I am OK now. Thank you for stopping." Her ease with her revival was interesting. She did not panic. She did not get upset or frightened. It was as if she had done this many times before.

"You see I am a Diabetic and when my blood sugar gets too out of whack I pass out. Sometimes I get a little warning like I must have had this time and I was able to find a comfortable place to relax." She smiled at her joke.

Slowly she began to sit up on her own. "Can you help me up?" which I did. We walked together out of the alley, into the sunshine of the sidewalk and crossed the street to a nearby Starbucks. I got her settled at a table, got her requested Latte and one for me. We sat together in silence for a while.

"Why did you stop? she asked. "Most people do not respond to my needs and often times I "come to" alone and have to regroup without any help. I think they think I am a drunk or a dopper and I can see their point."

"I don't know. I just guess I am a sucker for a beautiful woman! Especially a Damsel in Distress." I joked. "No really, I just don't know how to ignore a situation in which someone is in trouble. I have a tendency to "walk into" the trouble to try to help.

"Sometimes I get into trouble myself by trying to help. People often are embarassed or distrustful of my intentions, even thought they are in a compromised situation. I have learned how to measure whether my help is needed and am able to gracefully back out."

"Well you did good this time and I appreciate your help. I'll even treat you to your Latte," Susan added.

Luckily, many years later, Susan and my children are healthy and happy and they do not have to face the trials of being Diabetic. With me around to help Susan, and she certainly helps me in ways I cannot count or retell, events like the alley episode no longer occur.

It is amazing where and how love arrives.

Writing

Today, my friend and fellow writer Pat and I went to a presentation at the Chicago Cultural Arts Festival. The discussion was with Justin Torres who wrote We The Animals. Hearing him talk about his work of fiction caused me to think about myself as a writer and what I believe to be true about myself when it comes to my writing.

I am more of a memoirist than anything. Most of my stories are true although some embellishment of the details may help fill out the stories where my memory fails me.

For me, making up a story is the farthest from what I want to do when I feel  I have so many of my own stories to tell and isn't recounting and/or explaining life a series of Story Telling Experiences?

Saying this makes me feel like I may sound vain and a little self important, but far from that when I explain that I have always compared Fiction Writers to God while Memoirists are just  Story Tellers.

To create a uniquely new, previously non-existant life from bits and pieces of one's experience and lots of research; a life with beginnings, middles, and ends; a life with colors and nuances, joys and sorrows, celebrations and tragedies; is more like an act of God creating the world in six days and resting on the seventh.

The Memoirist's job is to retell his stories in a way that is interesting, engaging, humorous, at times not so funny; all added to other possible descriptors. There may be red herrings, plot twists, flash-backs, and other surprises. The stories can sound like fiction but they are not. The line between the two styles of literature is thin and I can see where the two may easily cross at times.

When I asked Mr. Torres to talk about how much of his book is about him even though it is a work of fiction, when compared to a memoirist who shares his real life experiences with possibly some embellishment, he felt my use of the word embellishment was a strange choice. I do not think so.

I think he skirted the issue on what is the definition and interpretation of Fiction vs Memoirs to which I will add, possibly the definition of the newer genre of Creative Non-Fiction.

Fiction is defined as literature in the form of prose, esp. short stories and novels, that describes imaginary events and people.

Memoirs is a historical account or biography written from personal knowledge or special sources. 

Creative Non-Fiction writing, which I sometimes more easily refer to as Memoirs (but also known as literary nonfiction or narrative nonfiction,) interestingly takes many more words to define. 

It is a genre of writing that uses literary styles and techniques to create factually accurate narratives. Creative nonfiction contrasts with other nonfiction, such as technical writing or journalism, which is also rooted in accurate fact, but is not primarily written in service to its craft. 

As a genre, creative nonfiction is still relatively young, and is only beginning to be scrutinized with the same critical analysis given to fiction and poetry.

P.S. Poetry is my second form of literary expression! Interesting.

The Night Before Christmas

This Christmas favorite was written in 1822 by Clement C. Moore for his own children. He later published it as "A Visit From St. Nicholas." Dr. Moore taught Biblical History in New York City. This scan of the title page is from the1949 edition of The Night Before Christmas published as a Little Golden Book, Simon and Schuster.