The Crow's Nest 3-8

3-8

            We; my business partner and I, arrived five minutes early and parked our truck under the old horse chestnut tree at the outer edge of the driveway.  This left clear access to the whole yard.  We got out of the truck and stood before it viewing the building complex.  I talked about what I knew about the inside, the rooms where I’d been and the contents.  It was a one sided information only time killer.  Mr. Lawyer was late.

            He arrived twenty minutes later with two women paralegals (?).  We were not introduced and I did not ask.  One of the women drove.  They parked in by the shed door.  Mr. Lawyer seemed a little flustered but that may have been “a little hurried” as he said.  I introduced my partner without explanation.  One of the women, with a key drawn from a manila envelope, walked to the shed door and unlocked it.  We all followed her.  She opened the door and we all walked through the dim light of the shed and summer kitchen into the main house’s kitchen through its unlocked door.  The kitchen was brightly lighted by daylight from the front and back windows.  We gathered at the kitchen table.  Mr. Lawyer gave me a grave look and was about to speak when I pre-empted him.

            “We need to see the whole estate; all of the house and building contents.  We can do this as a walk through.  I will make notes as we go and can make a purchase offer a few minutes after we finish.  This will not take very long”.

            Mr. Lawyer, looking relieved to hear such defined direction said “Fine”.  Both women adjusted the yellow legal pads they carried in their hands and said nothing.

            “We’ll start right here with the kitchen, go through the whole house then go outside to the shed and barn.” I continued.  I took a small folded card of blank paper and a pen out of my pocket, gave a nod to my partner and turned toward the kitchen table and chairs before the front window.  Beyond these in the room corner was a BROKEN 1840’s shelf clock on a … clock shelf and a low quality country Empire looking glass with a reverse painting on glass at its top.  My partner turned from all of us and started opening the kitchen cupboard doors rapidly.  He looked at the contents of each cupboard as he opened them but said nothing.  I, also saying nothing, made a few very small pencil slashes at the top of the folded paper card, turned toward the cast iron kitchen cook stove, made another tiny pencil mark, turned from that to the first door of the open kitchen cupboards, looked at that cupboard’s contents, moved on to the next cupboard, continued down the line to each, looked at my partner who was looking up at the top shelf of a cupboard at the end of the row, looked up to see that HE was viewing a gathering of old wooden “pantry boxes” pushed back to the wall so in the dark on the top shelf.  I made a few more pencil marks while turning away from the cupboards.  My partner closed all the cupboard doors.  Mr. Lawyer and the two women with the legal pads watched all of this.  Saying nothing, I stepped out of the kitchen and into the dining room.  My partner followed.  Mr. Lawyer and the women followed him.

            My partner opened and closed all but one of the doors and drawers on a… sideboard matching the whole rooms furnishings… a 1930’s dining room set… while I made a few more pencil marks that included the old china cabinet against the far wall that had no door and one of the curved glass panels missing.  The auctioneer, as was becoming obvious to my eye, had been very selective in what he took.  Probably a … “little hurried” too.  The house was still full of “household goods”.  My partner left one sideboard door open and I glanced in noting, as he had, a damaged dark blue Staffordshire coffee pot.  He picked up the lid from behind a box of tissues then quickly set it back down allowing my eye the second of time it needed to evaluate it… being there.  We then moved to the living room.  After looking at the fireplace and its jumble of … rubbish… before it, I stood in front of it and made more tiny pencil marks as I scanned the room.  My partner opened a built-in cupboard door to show me a full view of all the shelves.  After my eye quickly glanced at that he closed the door again.  We were ready to move into the front part of the home; the front hall and the parlor so familiar to me but also including a set of three small rooms (including a bathroom) at the upper end.

            Briskly my partner and I treated ALL these spaces and rooms as we had been doing.  We were truly rolling right along with Mr. Lawyer and company following, saying nothing and ...struggling to keep up.  The pace was enhanced by the front parlor and front hall being nearly empty of … things… but having a considerable amount of … rubbish… piled and dumped… all over.  I paid very little attention to this feature and Mr. Lawyer seemed satisfied with this action.  Up the front stairs we went to the landing and bedrooms.  We open each door and reviewed each space.  “Rubbish”, in modest piles was our bedroom discovery.  One door was different.

            This door, identical to the others, opened upon a stairs leading up to the attic.  UP WE WENT with Mr. Lawyer and team SLOWLY following.  We were ahead of them and had noted the abundance of …rubbish… before they crested the stair head.  We had ALSO noted that this rubbish had been “ground hogged”.  This is an antiquarian dealer’s term for how and …how inefficiently… a region of piled household rubbish… very often as this attic contents showed… IS SORTED THROUGH by… someone… in a hurry… trying to find “anything good” they “can sell”… or by someone who doesn’t know what they are doing.  Burrowing forward into the mound all goods are inspected, un-boxed, un-wrapped and… put right back down (all of it including the packaging)… just like a ground hog digs its hole… right behind where the forward effort is taking place creating a terminal moraine of discombobulated and disordered rubbish that is actually a WORSE MESS than the original rubbish mound.  This procedure is common, easy for me to spot and is well understood to mean… by antiques dealers like me… “they missed a lot”.  The correct procedure is to TAKE EVERYTHING …. EVERY THING… OUT OF THE SPACE so that the space is COMPLETELY EMPTY, MOVE IT TO A WAREHOUSE AND SORT IT LATER VERY CAREFULLY AND SLOWLY.

The Crow's Nest 3-7

3-7

            The second and promptly occurring after I’d returned from the auction preview so I had no time to contemplate the how, what, where and why of that thunderclap… was having the mother’s estate lawyer… call me up.  I wasn’t ready for that so did a very poor job of finding out anything beyond what  he, in a lawyerly way, offered.  In short… and he was short… he told me that Margaret had moved (had been moved?) to assisted living six month before because she “could no longer stay in the house alone” and “was greatly improved and greatly enjoying her new lifestyle”.  This last proved to be true; Margaret took to assisted living like the duck to water.  She became a princess of the dance floor, a foremost attendee of the concerts and lectures, a dining room table chairperson, a residency hall monitor and a front desk greeter.  Little happened in the …of very fine quality in fact… facility that she did not note or attend.  Her social world truly took off and… the world of her life in the mother’s house, “with mother”, VANISHED.  I personally never visited her AS STRONGLY SUGGESTED for I was told sincerely that her former life was GONE except for a very selected group of visitors that included the lawyer and the fire chief with his family.  It was this man; the fire chief, who told me the most about Margaret and her “remarkable” “change”.

            The lawyer, on the telephone that day, was brisk and tidy regarding Margaret.  He turned quickly to the purpose of the call.  It was… THAT:  The mother’s house was going to be sold to generate funds to “assist Margaret”.  The house contents had been reviewed by an auctioneer (of the lawyer’s choice and this not mentioned) who had removed and sold all of the estate contents he felt “was valuable”, “could be sold” (truly a couple of day before).  In reviewing the estate with a real estate broker (of the lawyer’s choice and this not mentioned) the lawyer had found, particularly in the barn, shed and attached outbuilding but INCLUDING the WHOLE HOUSE… a “very large amount of household goods” (later in the conversation referred to as “a house full of junk”) that… he was wondering… because Margaret had repeatedly mentioned ME as a person who would “BUY” that sort of “rubbish” (Margaret’s word here used by the lawyer)… if I would “BUY” all that and “CLEAN OUT THE HOUSE” “PROMPTLY” (his word emphasis).  I did not hesitate

            “Yes I COULD do that.” I said “but I must SEE the estate before making an offer”.  I explained that I had “never been through the estate” and needed to do a “quick walk through” to “see what is there”.  “THEN” I continued “I can promptly express my interest and make a purchase offer”.  Thereupon the lawyer DID cover his back end to me by commenting that he “has several people that he knew who had expressed interest in doing this” “TOO”.  This I doubted for… I have been doing estate cleanouts for decades and KNOW that the number of  “offer to do days (weeks) of manual work fast and PAY someone to do that” type of  “has several people” are… very scarce.  In fact most of the time I have to PAY SOMEONE myself to help ME with something I’ve already PAID SOMEONE for to even… turn the ignition key on their truck to START TO LOOK AT “what I’m up against” (read “what’s in it for me” in real dollars).  I stood behind this barricade of experience.  He tossed a few more “must be done promptly” kind of “can I” SENTENCES, never mentioned my ability to pay, fumbled around about actually meeting me at the estate “well I COULD get there before lunch” and in the end seemed to be about where I usually end up with this first estate BUY and CLEANOUT conversation:  STUCK WITH ME.

            As soon as I got off the telephone with Mr. Lawyer I was back on the telephone with “push that button” my fellow and long, long worked with antiques dealer who… I clean out estates with; he and OUR team of hanger-on helpers… to say that WE “have a good one” and would he “PLEASE” come with me on the walk through as a silent “man Friday” so WE can lock this one right up… I’ll pay for it (the purchase of the estate contents) and we “will go from there” meaning we’ve done this together so much that we do not need to sweat the details.  When he asked “How many truck loads?” “Did I think.”

            I replied “At least twenty”.

The Crow's Nest 3-6

3-6

            The silence ended with two antiquarian thunderclaps.  The first was detected by my own antiquarian vigilance.  While perusing… the large body of weekly regional public auction notices as is part of my job and is done on the habitual and hopeful delusion that I WILL find a public auction or something offered at public auction that is good and I can make purchases at … or make a purchase of… cheaply… I read a coastal Maine auctioneer’s items to be sold listing… that seemed… like things from the mother’s house.  The listing was tagged with a “selected offerings from an interior Maine estate” “with additions”.  What caught my eye was the juxtaposed “large early painting of Jesus Christ” followed by “family’s box of Civil War papers” followed by “Boston 1900 wicker bookcase” followed by “Civil War Sword”.  It was the large painting of Jesus that linked my eye to the rest.

            I went to the auction preview.  The large painting of the resurrected Jesus Christ… in its undisturbed perfect original state… within its perfect original undisturbed massive gold gilt frame… greeted me from across the room when I stepped into the auction hall.  In all its glory… off the mother’s parlor wall for the first time in 150 years… in full daylight enhanced by the auctioneer’s promotional spotlighting…  it was with NO QUESTION from the mother’s front parlor and JUST AS ABSOLUTELY OF NO FINE ART MERIT… as I’d always known it to be.  I walked to it, I scanned it, I moved on to review the whole room full of …public auction offerings.  I found the mother’s “rubbish” everywhere.  All of the front hall contents seemed to be there.  All of the front parlor contents… except the drapes… seemed to be there.  All of the upstairs bedroom contents… including the mother’s sewing machine and the refinished trunks from the landing… were there.

            I then began to examine the objects that I had NOT seen before and… quickly became lost in a futile attempt to find ANY OBJECT that I could say “came from there”.  I wandered around among stacks of old picture frames, modest late l9th century furniture, glass and china table top bric-brac displays and… suspiciously BETTER quality in BETTER condition ABUNDANT offerings that… IF THE MOTHER HAD THESE OBJECTS… SHE WOULD HAVE SOLD THEM… unless she had a Victorian decorative taste that was her personal thing and I had not detected… including old mantel clocks, sentimental oil paintings, oriental rugs, silver and silver plate and… jewelry.  All of this I concisely noted to be “select additions” meaning items from the auctioneer’s stock placed in the sale… to the extent that these offering were BETTER and more numerous than the mother’s offerings so that the mother’s “estate” was simply a bottom tier foundation for these better items to be sold for the auctioneer’s benefit.  This procedure, should it be unfamiliar to the reader, IS a very common practice of “public auction”.

            I had no trouble denoting this occurrence.  I had no problem with this occurrence.  It is normal public auction procedure to my eye.  The only thing I cared about was… that the mother’s inclusions WERE FROM THE HOUSE and that proved that …Margaret was no longer “there” (?) or at least something had happened “there” (?) or… Margaret had ordered the items sold (?).

            What was I going to do?  Call up Margaret from the auction hall?  I wandered around a little longer.  I talked with a few fellow antiques dealers who knew nothing about “where the stuff came from”.  I left.  I did not attend the auction.  The Jesus painting brought $265.00 plus “buyer premium” to a coastal Maine dealer “I BOUGHT IT FOR THE FRAME”.  I’ve never seen it again.

The Crow's Nest 3-5

3-5

            A month past.  The telephone rang.  It was Margaret.  “I HAVE SOME MORE OF MOTHER’S RUBBISH I WANT TO SELL TO YOU SO COME UP HERE TOMORROW.” she commanded.  I did as I was told.

            Of course nothing had changed and Margaret’s offerings were pitiful from an antiquarian perspective.  But… three notices came out of this visit.  First, this trip became the model for near monthly, brief, all business, rubbish purchasing trips that went on for the next six years.  There was never an improvement in the quality of the rubbish and never a change in the formula of the visits.  From these junctures I had a private epiphany:  Margaret did not like or care about antiques.  She did not know or care about a good antique …or a bad antique.  Her gatherings were in imitation of her mother: they had no root of true interest or commercial caring to package them.  Her business with me in the front parlor was also imitation of the mother.  Margaret did what she thought one did.  This ritual of selling to me is what she knew to do, had learned to do, had been trained to do and obsessively DID DO “to keep up appearances” as she’d been told to do.  All my visits became very… very brisk as Margaret streamlined the process to suit her complete disinterest in ALL OF IT.

            Secondly I noted the progressive decline of Margaret both physically and mentally.  Frail, thinning, hair becoming not kept then moving to wild, the addition of numerous noises, grunts and mutters made to herself in front of me combined with distant looks above and away from our business …and… a general impatience… never expressed or acted on… towards all of the visit… caused me to call Margaret to be “getting (more) cuckoo”.  Margaret living alone in the giant old antique house of her mothers, wandering through it on endless day & night pilgrimages calling for “mother” to guide or …end… this expanding odyssey of lonely cuckoo became a very obvious horror to me.

            The rubbish she brought forth proves this oblivion.  It became clear to me that the old living section of the home, including the sheds and barns, were, unlike the front section rooms I’d briefly glimpsed, JAMMED FULL of “mother’s rubbish” and TRULY it WAS RUBBISH.  The mother never “kept” a “good thing”.  IF she had a good thing… it was sold.  All that filled these huge spaces was the residue rubbish rejected from ALL the mother’s rubbish she had gathered.  The mother did not leave a single treasure in her house full of plunder.  Margaret had become the heir to this oblivion; the curator of a rubbish collection bestowed to “keep up appearances”.  “I’d go cuckoo too” I concluded.

            The third notice was a one time query I made on this first visit.  Boldly I asked “Have you been to Blood’s Farm?”

            “YES AND TOO MUCH I HAVE BEEN THERE ALREADY WITH THAT DRUNKARD HUNTING NEIGHBOR BOYS HE THINKS ARE PIRATES.  MUSTER DAY WITH THE FIREMEN STARTED AS A BEAUTIFUL OLD STYLE PICNIC IN THE BLOOD’S FARM YARD BUT ENDED WITH DRUNK MEN SHOOT CANNONS AT EACH OTHER.  MY GOD I THOUGHT WE HAD ALL GONE TO HELL.”

            “The firemen shot off cannons?” I said.

            “THE PIRATES SHOT FIRST.  THEY HIT THE SIDE OF THE HOUSE BY THE ATTIC.  THE FIREMEN FETCHED A CANNON OUT OF THE FIRE TRUCK AND FIRED BACK.  Eb-bEE WAS BESIDE HIMSELF THINKING THE HOUSE WAS GOING TO SINK.  THE FIREMEN HIT ONE OF THE PIRATES AND HE FELL OVERBOARD.  Eb-bEE WANTED HIS HEAD TO PUT ON A SPIKE.  THE FIREMEN TOLD HIM THE FISH WERE EATING THE BODY.  NOBODY WAS EATING THE PICNIC. THEY WERE ALL DRUNK AND SHOOTING THE CANNON. I COULDN’T WAIT TO GET OUT OF THERE”.

            At a later date it was explained to me that the firemen had arranged this picnic AND a mock pirate fight on the river for Eb-bEE’s …and theirs… boys-will-be-boys style entertainment also bringing Margaret in tow for a reunion with Eb-bEE.  The cannonade lifted Eb-bEE to a new high of river pirate hunting.  He was over the top with excitement, ignored Margaret and… the picnic DID deteriorate into a “few too many cold ones I guess” and a lot of expended black powder.  What I specifically got out of this was the realization that Eb-bEE was NOT a drunkard but that Margaret used the drunkard term to denote and conceal …cuckoo.  She preferred to think Eb-bEE was drunk instead of cuckoo.

            I must admit that… I… became personally fascinated by this Margaret – Blood’s Farm drama so actually passionately attended each “come hither” call from Margaret.  I bought truck loads of worthless rubbish willingly, hung on each word uttered by Margaret for clues to deeper events, had more and more chance meetings with locals and firemen watching out for all three, vigorously absorbed those people’s gossipy utterances and… actually enjoyed my singular role in the drama.  The firemen did too.  Of all the people, THEY seemed to be the only ones who actually cared about the “antiques; the houses are full of them what if there’s a fire they’re VERY VALUBLE”.  The men did not have a clue as to WHAT any given “antique” was but they were absolutely sure I KNEW WHAT was WHAT and that they were… “VERY VALUABLE”.

            Six years went by.  By that time Margaret looked and acted like a frayed rope.  As for Blood’s Farm, I understood the Alice still held court below decks in her kitchen while Eb-bEE still hunted and evaded pirates on the river from the attic windows.  His head was not on a spike I was always assured.  At the six year mark, with no notice at all, Margaret stopped calling me.  For six months all was silent.

The Crow's Nest 3-4

3-4

            At this moment the front door opened and the old Federal doorway was filled with a large human dressed like an 18^th century sea captain.  A voice boomed from this form as it stepped forward showing the captain shouting “YOU AIN’T A PIRATE WHAT DID YOU SAY PIRATE FOR HE AIN’T A PIRATE!”.  Down the steps clomped and lumbered the boot bedecked captain who at the bottom step looked down at the overgrown dirt path and then at me saying “WELCOME ABOARD SIR!  FINE DAY SIR!” He then turned his eyes to the sky saying “FINE FRESH BREEZE TODAY SIR!”.

            “See:  I know what cuckooed IS” said Alice softly as we both viewed the captain turn from us and clomp up to the river side corner of the front side of the house.  He very carefully peered around that corner.  He bent lower in a squat.  Then even lower in the same squat.  Then he stepped back and stood up behind the corner.  He turned and marched to the front door, opened that door, went inside leaving the door open and ascended the now visible to us front stairs.  “Pirates” said Alice.

            Quickly the sound of boots clomping down the stairs and out the front door signaled the captain’s return showing him to be carrying his extended brass telescope.  He went back to the house corner and slowly peeked around it with the telescope fixed to his eye.  He remained motionless then quickly turned, closed the telescope and walked directly down to us.  “BRIGATINE SIR NO COLORS.  PIRATES SIR.  MOST LIKELY THE PORTUGUESE AGAIN SIR.  TOO FAR OFF TO TAKE HER SIR.  HANGING OFF OUR PORT SIR” he said, stopped, looked hard at me and waited.

            “THANK YOU CAPTAIN.  PROCEED SIR.” I said.  Alice smiled at me.  The captain walked back past the front door to his viewing corner again.  After peering through his telescope for a long minute, he reversed, marched again to the front door and disappeared inside.  We could hear the boots go up the stairs and then could  hear the captain clomp toward the riverside windows of the attic.

            “It’s John Hastings’s boy fishing.  It’s usually him.  The boy knows the captain and his pirate hunting so never comes down past the house.  John’s old farm is up above on the river.  Always a very decent family and get on very well with Eb-bEE.  They never pay a mind to him and never taunt him either.  He’ll go back up the river in a minute you wait.” said Alice.  “All the firemen like Eb-bEE and support him; let him be just as he is.” she continued.  “They bring him down to the firehouse once a month to make sure he gets out.  Marches in the parades.  Attends all the supper too”.  They are all fine men and watch out for him.  They watch out for me too for that matter”.

            Down the stairs came boot clomping that interrupted Alice and the captain reappeared at the doorway.  “BLIGHTERS FALLING OFF.  WASTING.  WE ARE TOO FAR AHEAD SIR.  ANOTHER DAY SIR.  THEY NEVER GIVE UP SIR.” Boomed the captain from the doorway.  Then he surveyed the overgrowth before the doorsteps, followed that down to the old stonewall before the road and then scrutinized the branches of the large maple in front of the wall. “SURPRISED THAT DAMN CROW HASN’T COME BACK WITH YOU SIR.”.  We all looked up into the tree.  There was no crow.

            The captain walked over to us and speaking in a normal tone said to me “We are rid of it and all of them too she’s told you?”

            “Yes I know sir.  It seems to have worked very well for you and I am very glad for you”.

            “Very well it has indeed sir” he said and paused.  “Margaret’s never come back” he finalized.  Then he turned and walked back inside the front door.  The door closed and he was gone.  That was the last time I ever saw the captain.

            “Margaret put him on to the Portuguese pirates when we were little.  Told him they cut off the captain’s head and put it on a spike.  Scared him to death with her made up stories of the Portuguese pirates.  His whole life has been fear of having his head on a spike.  He’s the captain you know.  So it would be HIS head you see” said Alice.  Then she stood looking at me.

            “Do you think that could be true?” I said “That he misses Margaret?”

            “Of course it’s true.  They’re BOTH CUCKOO.  They’ve been that way together forever.  BOTH OF THEM.  Could never get past cuckoo to the obvious.  OBVIOUS to everyone else.  Even her mother tried.  The two of then should be up there hunting the pirates together right now.  That’s all they ever DID then so they should be doing it NOW TOO.  But its always been like this.  Margaret wants to be loved but won’t let Eb-bEE because he’s cuckoo and he will not love her because SHE’S CUCKOO TOO.  THIS pirate fight in that attic IS THEIR LOVE.  Even the crows know it.”

            “Maybe their love that way IS OK.  It’s THIS WAY; it is THEIR love.”

            “Well its fine that way if Margaret comes out here.  But she hasn’t been out here in a year.”

            “Maybe YOU should go to Margaret”

            “NOT ME.  But I HAVE told the firemen.  They’ll do something.  I know them”.  The last she said with finality.  That finality extended like a smother.  I tried a few more words but they smothered.  I flustered slightly.  Alice stood ground, watched and said nothing.  I excused myself… and drove away.  That was the last time I ever saw Alice.

The Crow's Nest 3-3

3-3

            Outside, loaded and having seated myself in the truck cab in Margaret’s yard… including having the demijohn bottle cushioned for travel but showing off in the center of my pickup bed load… I made a choice and… headed for Blood Farm.  Up the dirt roads, down the dirt road and UP into the farm yard where… as I stopped… Alice burst from the side door, eyed me come out of the truck cab and started yelling “NOTHING IS FOR SALE GO AWAY NOTHING IS FOR SALE!” to begin my… visit.

            “I KNOW I KNOW I DON’T WANT TO BUY ANYTHING I WAS JUST AT MARGARET’S AND SHE TOLD ME ABOUT YOU GETTING THE HOUSE BACK” I yelled back and that worked for Alice stopped yelling, look at me again, looked at the truck load and said “DID YOU BUY THAT FROM MARGARET?”

            “Yes.”

            Alice came right down the steps and went right to the back of the truck and started scrutinizing the whole load.  After a long minute she said “Well… none of that came from HERE.  In fact… it looks like it IS all Margaret’s stuff”.

            “I just bought it from her”.

            “That bottle’s full of her stamps” Alice said reaching a thin arm over the side of the pickup and pointing downward to the demijohn in the center.  “She did that when we were little girls; always put the stamps in that bottle.  Used a stick from cemetery flag to poke ‘em in.  Why’d she sell that?  I remember that bottle clear as today.  Funny bottle with all her funny stamps in it.  Can’t get ‘em out.  CAN’T even LOOK AT THEM.  She was cuckooed even then.

            “That was Margaret’s bottle?” I said.

            “When we were little girls.  Don’t look like its change a lick.  Except for the dust.  Used to be by the door in the living room.  In the corner.  Always there.  We always would look at it.  Sometimes we had some stamps to poke into it.  The stick was there too.”

            “No stick with it today.” I said.

            Alice paused while still looking at the demijohn and then said “Why’d SHE sell you that?  She’s just cuckooed now.”

            “Seems a little bit of that.” I said.  “Talks to her mother I think”.

            “TALKS TO HER ALRIGHT don’t she JUST but I don’t see her just HEAR them talk.  Came out LAST YEAR with that lawyer and THE WILL.  NICE MAN he is after I found out he wasn’t after us or the farm.  Nice man and kept Margaret straight and narrowed after she found out the will.  MRS. ARDSLEY kept her promise to me.  SHE always said to NEVER WORRY.  Well with Margaret I WORRIED.  Then that nice lawyer stood right here with Margaret and THAT WAS THAT.  Alice paused, took her eyes off the demijohn, turned from the truck back and cast her eyes up and down me.  “YOU KNOW WHAT:  Margaret didn’t seem to care.  I THOUGHT SHE’D BE.  But she weren’t.  Just stood with the lawyer there.  Never went inside either of them.  Stood there until that crow come down”.

            “Crow?”

            “THAT CROW THAT BEEN IN THAT TREE” said Alice point up into the branches.  “IT WENT IN THE ATTIC.  Eb-bEE chased it OUT.  It come down behind the lawyer’s car.  Hopped around.  Pecked the ground.  Then Margaret says SIMON to it.  Then says it again and again.  Well I know who Simon was; was her MOTHER’S CROW.  BABY crow pet when she was a little girl.  So I say that’s NOT Simon Margaret but she looks at that crow and says loud MOTHER. Well no one said anything and the crow flew off.  Then I said Margaret are you getting cuckooed ?  And she was cuckoo then and IS CUCKOOED now.  She’s never come back since but I hear they see her talking to the crows around in town.  Calls ‘em all SIMON”.

The Crow's Nest 3-2

3-2

            At the mother’s house… everything was the same.  The front walk, the front door, the buzzing doorbell, Margaret walking through the house to the door, the key turning, the door sticking, the up the front hall escort, the into the front parlor, the modest mounds of “rubbish”, my chair and… Margaret did not sit down in the mother’s chair at the desk… as was her style.

            “I HAVE CALLED YOU TO BUY SOME MORE OF MOTHER’S RUBBISH.  HERE, HERE AND OVER HERE” she began with added air slicing hand gestures.  “HOW MUCH FOR ALL OF THIS RUBBISH HERE.  DO NOT INCLUDE THE FISHING POLES.  THOSE ARE FOR MRS. TAYLOR’S BOY.  FINE YOUNG MAN BUT NOT A BRAIN IN HIS HEAD.  GOES FISHING. WILL NOT WORK. ALWAYS FALLS IN THE RIVER NEVER CATACHES ANY FISH.  FINE YOUNG MAN THOUGH.  COULD BE THOUGHTFULL IF HE THOUGHT OF IT.  FINISHED UP LAST IN CLASS I’M SURE.  GUESS THAT CAN’T BE HELPED THESE DAYS NOW TELL ME HOW MUCH FOR ALL THIS RUBBISH”.

            I looked at the jumble of four fishing poles, reels and their binding ball of snarled old fishing lines.  I looked at the rest of the …rubbish.  A large 2 gallon olive green glass Civil War era demijohn dominated the front of the small piles of offerings.  It was half full of old postage stamps that had been torn or clipped from postcards or envelopes and pushed down the neck of the bottle… long ago.  A footstool, a small brass bucket, a valise, a table lamp, 19^th century cardboard cracker boxes, a small box of glassware including a pattern glass cruet in blue glass, an umbrella, a parasol, a 1900 cast clay & painted plant urn, a stack of magazines, a stack of old books, a white enamel covered metal box filled with postcards and ephemera, a metal tray holding old tools, a very small box with three jackknives in it, a faded and soiled machine made wall tapestry of the “SPIRIT OF SAINT LOUIS”, a framed print of a country doctor visiting a home, another framed print of a church in Rumford Falls, Maine, a clump of wooden handled WWI era domestic cleaning tools, a not very old globe of the world, a pile of old women’s shoes, a small box containing old tintype photographs of mostly middle age men, an old dog collar, a stack of 20^th century bumped & bent pewter plates of various sizes, three rolled up wall maps from a local school circa 1930’s, three boxes of jumbled rubbished, a single broken black painted carriage lamp, two perfectly useless old harden tar filled buckets, a random gathering of glass jars in a cardboard box and… HOPELESSLY MORE RUBBISH of the same ilk WITH… a singular addition of a WW1 era cheaply made fraternal lodge sword within its scabbard and having its cheap but flamboyant harness… too… laid on top of one pile as if a finalizing “TAH-DAH”.  “One hundred twenty-five dollars for all of it” I said clearly.  That price offered was the top dollar valuation of the demijohn assuming it was in perfect condition.  I did not inspect it.  I did not even touch ANYTHING.

            Margaret waffled where she stood, hesitated, looked at me, looked at the rubbish piles, lower her slicing hand and said “WELL… I SUPPOSE THAT WILL HAVE TO DO.

            It was gonna “have to do” because the stuff sucked.  I didn’t move.  I didn’t look at the stuff or Margaret.  I looked at the fishing poles.  I was glad couldn’t buy them.  “PAY ME PLEASE AND MAKE OFF WITH YOUR RUBBISH” boomed Margaret’s voice.  It awakened me and I looked at her.

            “What has happened at Blood Farm?” I heard myself say.  Margaret looked back at me, paused, scowled, paused again and said.

            “THAT’S ALL FINE AND WELL FOR YOU TO ASK BUT IT IS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.  EVERYONE KNOWS HOW SURPRISED I WAS.  I NEVER HAD A CLUE.  I ALWAYS JUST ASSUMED BUT I SUPPOSE ONE BETTER NEVER ASSUME ANYTHING.  IT HAS ALL BEEN WORKED OUT NOW BUT I NEVER WAS MORE SURPRISED”.

            “Surprise?  Surprised about what Margaret?”

            “SURPRISED ABOUT THE WILL:  MOTHER’S WILL.  SHE HAD A WILL.  NEVER THOUGHT OF THAT.  VERY CRAFTY MOTHER IS.  WAS.  STILL IS.  CAN’T SEEM TO GET AWAY FROM HER.  SHE SEEMS LIKE SHE’S STILL ALIVE.  SEEMS LIKE SHE’S HERE LISTENING TO US IN THE LIVINGROOM.  ARE YOU THERE MOTHER?” Margaret shouted past me toward the upper end of the front hall.  This moment, in hindsight, was the first moment that… I… realized Margaret …as Alice will define it shortly… “has gotten cuckooed”.

            Silence followed Margaret’s query.  Then she looked at me and resumed “MOTHER HAD A WILL SHE MADE WITH HER LAWYER IN PORTLAND.  VERY FINE LAWYER HE HIS.  HARVARD.  KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT EVERYTHING.  HAS ALL THE RIGHT PEOPLE READY AT ANY TIME.  CALLED UP AFTER HE READ ABOUT MOTHER’S DEATH IN THE PAPER.  CAME RIGHT UP WITH HER WILL.  VERY CRAFTY MOTHER IS.  MADE A WILL WITH HIM YEARS AGO.  EVERYTHING; ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING COVERED BY THE WILL.  THE LAWYER SEES TO IT ALL.  ABSOLUTLY ALL OF IT.  I HAVEN’T HAD TO DO A THING.  A LOT MORE TO MOTHER THAN I EVER KNEW.  VERY CRAFTY MOTHER IS.  VERY CAREFULL.  PROBABLY ALL FOR THE BEST BUT IT WAS QUITE A SURPRISE.  EVERYTHING IS SPELLED RIGHT OUT.  THIS HOUSE.  OUR HOUSE.  MOTHER’S HOUSE.  IT WAS ALL HERS NEVER MINE NOT EVEN NOW.  TRUSTED THE LAYER CALLS IT.  IT’S ALL TRUSTED.  THAT MEANS IT IS STILL HER HOUSE.  ALL HER MONEY TOO.  TRUSTED.  LOTS OF MONEY SHE HAS TOO.  THE LAWYER SEES TO THAT.  I DON’T HAVE TO DO A THING.  JUST KEEP UP APPEARANCES HE SAYS.  OTHERWISE EVERYTHING IS TRUSTED”.

            This oral blast from Margaret… I took sitting in my chair.  I understood the blast and… felt I might be getting a profit on my journey after all.  The mother WAS crafty and HAD “trusted” Margaret; set her up for life.  I got it.  The lawyer had a firm grip on all of it and… I bet it is worth his time and grip… were my thoughts.  “What happened to Blood Farm?  She owned Blood Farm didn’t she?” I cautiously queried.

            “THAT TOO:  TRUSTED.  SHE TRUSTED THAT TOO.  TO THEM.  TRUSTED BLOOD FARM.  TO THEM.  IT IS ALL THEIRS NOW.  AGAIN.  MOTHER TRUSTED IT BACK TO THEM.  IT IS ALL THEIRS AGAIN THE LAWYER SAYS.  TRUSTED.  JUST LIKE MOTHER’S HOUSE.  IT’S ALL THEIRS AGAIN AND MOTHER TRUSTED THAT TOO.  THE LAWYER SEES TO IT.  I DON’T HAVE TO DO ANYTHING.  THEY CAN LIVE IN THERE WITH ALICE’S RUBBISH AND NEVER WORRY ABOUT A THING.  I NEVER HAVE TO GO THERE AGAIN.  THE LAWYER TRUSTED IT.  HE DOES IT ALL.  THAT IS ALL FINE AND WELL FOR ME.  DIDN’T WANT THAT BOTHER ANYWAY.  BLOODS ARE ALL DRUNKEN FOOLS.  MISERABLE OLD MAN STILL FIGHTING THE PORUGUESE.  THINKS HE’S SAILING AFTER PIRATES OUT THERE.  MISTERABLE OLD DRUNK HE IS.  TRUSTED THE LAWYER SAYS.  SO ON AND SO FORTH.  COMMITTEE AT THE BANK.  LAWYER HEAD OF THAT.  GROUP OF MEN.  RESPECTABLE BANK MEN.  THE FIRE CHIEF.  FINE YOUNG MAN HIM.  THEY’RE ALL TRUSTED.  ETC., ETC.  MEET ONCE A YEAR.  SAME AS MOTHER’S HOUSE.  I DON’T HAVE TO DO A THING.”

            This second blast I didn’t understand precisely but understood the essence:  Blood Farm had been returned… in trust (?)… to Alice and the captain by the mother’s will.  It was theirs; all theirs and… paid for “in trust” (?).  That the mother’s lawyer was in charge and a bank and other men including the “fire chief” were the trust guardians (?).  Probably true and makes sense I reasoned quickly.

            “PAY ME PLEASE AND MAKE OFF WITH YOUR RUBBISH” boomed Margaret’s voice.