Look At This Quiver

When I lived in Boston, I arranged my work schedule so that I could attend the monthly African Arts Seminar at Boston University.  The attendees were all Americans, and they were all academics except for me and a woman named Nancy, who was a collector of African art. 

I asked Nancy if I could see her African art collection.  She agreed.

I went to her home.  Nancy and her husband owned a three-story commercial building near Harvard Square.  They rented the first floor to a business, and they lived on the upper two floors.

Actually, they lived in a small corner of the second floor, where they had a living room, kitchen, and bedroom.  The rest of the place, somewhere around 8,000 square feet, was devoted to Nancy’s African art collection.

She liked big art made of wood: masks and statues. 

She walked me through the second floor, full of masks hanging on walls and pillars, hanging on wires from the ceiling, displayed on tables.  There were lots of wooden statues standing on the floor.

I oohed and aahed.  It was like an art jungle.  She definitely needed the 8,000 square feet.  I tried to imagine her husband willingly buying a large building so his wife could live with her acquisitions.  Given Boston real estate prices, the building must have cost a fortune.

We went up to the third floor. Again, wooden masks on display everywhere.  Plus wooden statues.  My mind was boggled.  This collection was bigger than a museum.  Nancy must have spent a fortune.

Then Nancy stopped at a table, and became animated.  She wanted to show me her favorite piece of art.

“Here, Doug, look at this quiver.”  

The quiver still had its crude hand-made arrows in it.  It was covered in leather, dyed a red color very common in Africa, with a simple black ink design on it.  A few small seashells were glued to it for decoration.

“Just look at the patina on the quiver.”  She ran her hand over the quiver to emphasize the patina.  This quiver could not have cost her more than five dollars; yet, it was her favorite object amongst two floors of African art.

I understood why it was her favorite.  It had a patina.  Someone had used this quiver.  That person had hunted, and had brought home meat for his family. 

The patina connected Nancy to a person.  Not the person who made the quiver.  Not the person who had sold it to her.  The patina connected Nancy to the hunter who had used this quiver.

8,000 square feet of masks and statues did not give her such a personal connection.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com

Imprisoned Across The River From Boston

I lived for five years in Middlesex County in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

Someone in the county had playfully put the names of her husband, her dog, and herself on their doorbell.  Alert Middlesex County authorities made note of the names on the doorbell, and summoned one of the names to jury duty.  It was the dog. 

The dog, however, was excused from serving on a jury once Middlesex County found out it could not speak English. 

Since the county jury pool had been reduced by one, it was inevitable that Middlesex County would summon me. They did.

I had never been called for jury duty before.  I was ready to perform my sacred duty as a citizen.

The court, in those days, was located in a tall building in Cambridge.  All potential jurors were shown a video about jury duty.  We all swore to uphold the constitution of the Commonwealth.  We were divided into groups.  The court officials said that not every group would be seated at a trial.  Then we were told to wait.

As we waited, I looked out the windows and saw that we were directly across the river from downtown Boston. 

I could hear downtown Boston beckoning me, “Hey, come over here for lunch.”  I worked twelve miles from Boston and never had the chance to eat lunch downtown on a weekday.  This was a rare opportunity.  

I stopped thinking about my sacred duty as a citizen and started wishing for our group to be dismissed so I could have lunch downtown.

The court officials began calling group numbers. 

I watched the faces of the first group called; they were to be seated for a trial.  They were glum, sad, downcast as they walked toward the elevator.  They looked like they had been sentenced to be executed.  

The second group called was dismissed.  As they walked toward the elevator, they looked jubilant, happy, relieved.

It struck me: We, the jurors, were imprisoned in the courthouse.  There were only two ways out.  We could be seated at a trial or we could be released out on the street.

Our group waited a long time before we were dismissed.  When I walked out of the courthouse, my stomach told me that it could not wait for me to drive over the river to Boston for lunch.  I walked across the street to a sandwich shop.

I enjoyed my lunch; I was a free man.

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NOTE: Doug's best stories have been collected into a book: Puppy Out Of Breath.  Price = $11.  You can purchase a copy at  http://www.puppyoutofbreath.com