Mark of the Gypsy

There are, of course, thousands upon thousands of stories with each item you see in an antique shop; where did it come from, who owned it and what happened during it's life before it ended up here?

This particular story centers around a small table.  Although the table itself was quite unique, hand made and elegant, the table is far less of a story than is the ring left by a mug.  A cup of odd smelling tea that was casually sipped by a visiting gypsy is the actual story.

None of the residents knew at the time the woman in their midst was an honest to goodness gypsy.  Initially it was assumed she was selling something door to door throughout the neighborhood.

Not very far into the conversation, however, did they begin to see, as well as feel the powers emanating from their guest.  The tentacles of her conversation were touching upon emotional pressure points, not so much as to place people on the defensive but enough that not a single person left the room.

No one there found more pressing issues, no one required a bathroom break and not a single one of them moved to answer the phone when it rang.  Something about this woman had them spellbound, for lack of a better word.

For weeks after she left various family members attempted to describe her, each one was positive their description was correct but each would have been wrong.

It was a good month after the event when the housekeeper called Mrs. Arlene into the room. 

"Not only will this stain not come off, but look at it.  No, look closer, get right up to it."

Mrs. Arlene bent down over the small table and studied the ring that had been left by the mug of tea. 

"How old is this?" she asked and then clicked on the light next to her.

It was like reading tea leaves.  She had heard about reading tea leaves but never had she seen or heard of anything like this.  This seemed like nothing more than a stupid mishap that could have been avoided by use of a coaster.  "How is this possible" she mumbled.

The more she closely looked at the stain the more she noticed the shapes and varying degrees of shading.  She could see very clearly her own house, the trees in the yard and the walk leading up to the side yard.  It is amazing, she couldn't believe the detail.

She could see what she believed to be timelines.  There was a distinct difference between past and future.  Following the curvature of the ring she tried hard to figure out what she might expect in the weeks to come.

She thought she could see the family car but it wasn't alone.  There were several cars lined up and she could see the church at the end of town.  Was this a funeral she was seeing?  Was someone going to die?  Immediately she began to think of family and friends.  Who was sick?  Who was in the hospital?  She found herself getting all worked up just thinking about it.

She reached over and clicked off the light.  "I can't do this, she snapped, just clean it up."

Over time, as various members of the family and close friends heard about the stain, they came to look at it, to see it for themselves.  What each one saw was as different as their description of the gypsy. 

Randy was sure he saw someone falling from a roller-coaster, while Linda, when looking at the stain left by the mug, got overwhelming jitters, so much so that she jumped back.  It wasn't fear.  As she described it, she just suddenly became very nervous, anxious - as if something was about to happen.

The events that happened that year were chronicled in the local paper.  Although there was never a mention of the gypsy woman who had paid them a visit, each sad and unfortunate event with various family members became news.

Just prior to the estate sale the housekeeper was asked if there was anything from the house she wished to have.  Although the family had always been very good to her and she missed them as if they were her own family, she made it quite clear there was nothing from the home she wanted.  She went as far as to suggest the house had been cursed.

Most things sold over the three day sale, and some of the furniture changed hands over the year.  The small table with the stain ended up at Fragments, an antique store.  It was purchased in a bulk order and now sat quietly along the aisle with several odd lamps and ceramic vases. 

The stain on the tabletop was now somewhat faded but was still visible.  The price tag said it had been marked down from $350.00 to $210.00

The old woman running the antique shop seemed a little strange.  She wore and old bandanna and a knit shawl even in summer.  When I first saw her she was perched on a stool by the cash register.  She was sipping an odd smelling tea.  I'm not sure what it was.



The end

Zobostic Corwin    

                                       

La Cobra

It is said to have magical powers.  Created by a sorcerer’s apprentice and silversmith.  This mystical ring - referred to as,

 La Cobra, protects it’s wearer from harm, injustice and some types of skin irritations, but rubber gloves are still recommended whenever washing dishes.

It was discovered many years ago in an estate sale in Hoboken.  Its previous owner reportedly lived a healthy, care-free life until he ignored the one hour rule about swimming after consuming a meal.

                                                 

                                                                        Zobostic Corwin

                                                                    

The Proof's in the Pudding

Antioxidant

Against Oxidants

Animal Testing

Portions of this blog have been tested
on hyenas.










They didn't find it funny either.

For Hypothetical Use Only

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The Park Bench

               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]