On early walks I have never stopped at this bench but
today it seemed inviting, so in the absence of morning dew and for no other
reason than I was there and it was vacant, I sat.
The first few moments were spent getting to know each
other, the bench and I. It was of solid
construction, made from hard wood and treated to be resistant to the likes of
nature, small children and exhausted joggers flopping themselves down with
momentary finality. My weight it took
without groan or fuss. It wasn’t too
narrow or too wide and the back had a supportive slant immediately drawing my attention
to the level of craftsmanship that must have gone into its design. I found myself smiling and wondering why I
had not, years before, taken advantage of such a marvelous bench. With respect to comfort, this was suitable
for a four or five star hotel lobby or along a manicured garden pathway leading
to some grand estate. How had I not
discovered this long ago?
I rested my right arm along the armrest and immediately
found it cradled my forearm like a hand-tooled leather saddle. The rounded front of the arm had been
uniquely sculptured, providing a very inviting distraction for my fingers. They automatically began exploring the
contours, the swirling ridges and with none of that cold, impersonal feel of
iron as I have seen and felt before on benches in the city or at the zoo. I felt like I was testing out a new car,
becoming familiar with the seat, adjusting the mirrors and peeking inside the console;
for a moment I closed my eyes, listening for the road noise. Was this going to be a smooth and quiet ride
or was this nothing more than flash and sparkle, turning every road imperfection
into a shock-wave, making the journey intolerably long? No, this was no economy ride. This was pure mortgage-the-farm luxury.
I began to wonder just who made such a great
bench. Surely they must have signed this
work of art. They must have studied the
human form, maybe even attended medical school before becoming a designer of
benches and ultimately master carpenter.
Nothing short of pure genius could have created this. I scanned the bench and then noticed the
small brass plaque embedded in the cement support structure that anchored and must
have no doubt insured its survival. I
had to stand and face the plaque to read it but it was going to be worth
standing up, if for no other reason than to enjoy once again sitting down.
I was disappointed in not seeing a name on the
plaque. All it said was: Melting Butter. I had no clue what that meant; maybe it
actually was a piece of art and melting butter was what the artist had called
it. I found that to be odd but didn’t let it stop
me from sitting back down. This was
marvelous. I wanted this bench; I wanted
to buy it from the parks department, if that’s who owned it. I’m sure there is no way anyone was going to
sell this to me but just thinking about owning it made me feel like a kid all excited
about Christmas.
I closed my eyes once more and again felt myself smiling
at the thoughts that were popping into my head, my hands still feeling the
smoothness of the wood as I sat there. The park would soon be busy with dog walkers,
joggers and baby strollers but I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to stand up, so I just sat
there, my eyes closed, feeling more content than I could ever remember being.
I
must come back here tomorrow, I thought, and bring, Dear Scott – Dearest Zelda.
I will sit here and read the most enjoyable book I have ever read and
can’t stop reading. It is a wonderful collection
of letters between Scott Fitzgerald and his wife Zelda. Their passion makes Romeo and Juliet’s story
a humorous antidote in the grand scheme of relationships. Zelda’s tormented soul and undying love fuel
each excruciating letter with such depth of abandon and somehow hope; I have
never seen the human spirit so vulnerable and yet so resilient.
And
a sandwich! I will come here tomorrow
with my book and a sandwich, and bottled water.
I will camp out on this bench. I
will have my things with me and stay the day.
Over the following weeks I became a fixture in the
park, like one more statue or fountain that everyone casually noticed and
accepted. They knew I was going to be
there on that bench and that I would be lost in the pages of two people’s lives
I’d never meet. On occasion someone
would stop and strike up a conversation, even sit down next to me and rest
while they tossed out little crumbs of questions, as if they were feeding the
birds, but really trying to feed their curiosity as to who I was and why each
day I buried myself in the pages of torment and excitement of the roaring 20’s.
To a few I would try to explain that I had found the
exact spot in the universe I was supposed to be and that I was inexplicably content; but too often I came off sounding as some lunatic and they would
quickly excuse themselves and head back along the path. But the truth was, I couldn’t explain it; for
it wasn’t just an amazing bench or some morbid passion to continually delve
into the babbling s of a schizophrenic. I
was simply happy. I was truly enjoying
my life such as it was and against all reasons and logical arguments, happiness
survived.
Then one Saturday afternoon I felt an impending doom. It was
a strong feeling and I expected to hear ominous oboes playing shark attack
music. The feeling caused me to look up
from by book. My first thought was that
another Frisbee was headed my way but I could see that wasn’t the case. It was a uniformed police officer and I was
his destination. He stopped directly in
front of me and asked how I was doing. I
slipped my bookmark between the pages and closed it. I looked at him and smiled slightly. “I am doing well. How are you?”
His expression didn’t change. He looked at my knapsack which held my lunch
and some bottled water and then back at me.
“There have been complaints. You
can’t stay here.”
I was confused and it must have shown up in my facial
expression.
“I’m sorry, he added, but you need to move along.”
“Complaints about what?” I asked.
“You make some people nervous. They don’t understand why you are always here
and…”
“Have I broken any laws? Isn’t this a public park, and this a public
bench?”
“Maybe you could relocate to the other side of the
park; you know, move around, and choose different locations. That would be more normal and perhaps people
wouldn’t…”
“I like it here.
It’s comfortable and I’m happy.
The only people I talk to are the ones who come up and talk with
me. I bother no one and I am breaking no
laws.”
“If you don’t move you will be cited for loitering.”
I
felt my small, safe environment suddenly collapsing in on me. I didn’t understand why this was happening
but I didn’t argue. I tucked my book
into my pack and headed home. By the
time I reached my apartment I had formulated a plan. I was going to find out exactly who built
that bench and who currently owned it.
If possible I was going to buy it and have it moved to my home; failing
that, I would commission another to be built.
Even though my focus was on acquiring the bench it
still nagged at me that I was making people nervous just by sitting there in
the park. I know over the course of
several weeks that I saw many of the same people over and over again. Were they making others nervous? The more I fretted about it the more agitated
I became. I needed to let it go or I’d
be locked away like Zelda, left writing letters of great importance concerning
nothing at all.
It took three days and a flurry of disconnects before
I reached the one person who held the answers to my questions. Melting Butter
was donated to the parks department by the artist Mary-Jane
Reynolds. Unfortunately the parks
department no longer had any contact information for Mary-Jane. I was going to have to keep digging until I
could find her. I would start with the
Internet. I saw that as my greatest resource
and certainly cheapest form of investigation.
The deeper I dug into the art community the more I
began to realize just how famous Mary-Jane
was. Her benches were in several major
cities, including Paris, New
York, London and Los Angeles.
The more I discovered the more I began to realize that I could never
afford to buy one. What was I thinking,
I would just call her up and ask her to make one for me? Just
as I was beginning to give up I clicked on a Web site that showed a picture of Melting
Butter. There it was, even in the picture it was
amazing. That was MY bench. I love that bench and I quickly printed off
the color picture. If I couldn’t afford
the real thing I now knew that just by seeing a picture of it I was regaining
the same feeling I had when I first discovered it. I no longer needed to sit on it to feel such
great happiness; I just needed to see it.
Being maybe just a little excessive I hung copies of
the photograph on the wall over my monitor, one in the kitchen across from the
phone and one in the living room, just left of the television. Each and every time without fail, when I saw
it I smiled, I felt happy and a little more at peace. I didn’t want to analyze all of that too
much. I just wanted to enjoy it. I did miss being at the park, but here in my
apartment I had never ever been hit by a Frisbee.
Z. Corwin
Note:
This is not the bench mentioned in the above story. It is a handmade bench we discovered in a small, out-of-the-way store. It sold for $35,000.00
When we sat on this bench it felt exactly as the one above is described. It was truly amazing.
Iroko is a large hardwood tree
from the west coast of tropical Africa that
can live up to 500 years.[1] The tree is
known to the Yoruba as ìrókò, logo or loko and is
believed to have supernatural properties.[2] Iroko is
known to the Igbo people as oji wood.[3] It is one
of the woods sometimes referred to as African teak, although it is
unrelated to the teak family.
The wood colour is initially yellow but darkens to a richer copper brown over
time. It is yielded mostly (probably) by Milicia excelsa.
In much of the literature on this timber the names of the trees that yields it
are given as Chlorophora excelsa and Chlorophora regia.[4][5]
The tree is feared in some cultures
where it originates and hence is shunned or revered with offerings.[6] Yoruba people
believe that the tree is inhabited by a spirit, and anybody who sees the
Iroko-man face to face becomes insane and speedily dies.[7] According
to the Yoruba, any man who cuts down any iroko tree causes devastating
misfortune on himself and all of his family,[7] although
if they need to cut down the tree they can make a prayer afterwards to protect
themselves.[8]
They also claim that the spirit of
the Iroko can be heard in houses which use iroko wood, as the spirit of the
Iroko is trapped in the wood.[7] In Nigeria the
iroko wood is of much lower quality due to soil conditions as well as root-rot.[9][10][11] Some
Westerners refer to the wood as "poor man's teak".[12]
