tsai . shellac : copyright
© 1998-2010 |
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Beauty recognizes beauty. Cunning sharpens the dull. Solitude searches for a mate. Every object has a beginning; every thought a link; every person a context. Today, a little girl is born. Her name is Quincy – Quincy Anne Chu. Her mother, born in California, is part Irish, Finnish, English, Native American, and French. Her father is an immigrant’s son, born and raised in Ann Arbor, Michigan. His first language is Mandarin. He learned to speak English at school and by tagging along with the kids next door. Quincy’s father was frequently told by his mother how fortunate he was to have been born in America, but, in the same breath, she would remind him that They will always see you through your skin. ‘Zhong Guo’, literally Middle Kingdom, otherwise know as China or People’s Republic of China, was Quincy’s great-grandparents’ homeland. Both sets of great-grandparents fled to Taiwan in 1949 to begin a new life under the Nationalist regime. In 1967, upon being accepted into the doctoral program of mathematics at the University of Michigan, Quincy’s grandfather came to Ann Arbor to look for graduate student housing for married couples. He was a reticent man who read an entire Taiwanese newspaper while eating dinner with his family. So, in addition to riding his big wheel around the cul-de-sac, then his dirt bike around the block, then his very used looking old Volkswagen Rabbit around town, Quincy’s father grew up wondering what his father did all day and dreaming up stories of what he would be when he was all grown. Quincy’s mother was born and raised in San Francisco. The ‘forty-eight’ colors within a box of waxy Crayons were no match against her environment of pastel houses painted in cream orange, magenta, and lime-green with window trims and door frames in apricot, powder blue, and burnt sienna. In the first half of her upbringing, set in the Haight-Ashbury district, she watched her parents smoke joints, play music with deranged guitar sounds, braid their hair, and attend rallies. The rallies started out as mesmerizing and peaceful, but as time progressed, the spirit of the times did not; they often became chaotic and unfocused. For Quincy’s mother, they were a source of consternation and dread. She was in continual fear of losing her parents to the hypnotic beat of the crowd where they would become more dead than alive. In the second half of her upbringing, her father got promoted to middle management in a small publishing company. The family moved to the more staid Sunset district. For Quincy’s mother, winter was never so cold as a foggy summer night. Mark Twain’s pithy statement of The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco was Quincy’s mother’s hallmark quote to detect those with a perverted weather pride. Her parents, fortunately, understood the condition of weather on a kid’s sanity. And so, every summer from the age of nine until she enrolled in college at Ann Arbor, Michigan, Quincy’s mother was sent to a summer camp for ‘gifted’ individuals on a winery in the Napa Valley studying delta-epsilon proofs to van Gogh’s Starry Night. From what flavors oak barrels gave to wines, to how wines could taste spicy, by the time she was seventeen, Quincy’s mother was also well-acquainted with this ancient libation and its aromatic path to perfection. Quincy’s parents are named Sappho Sophia Jones and Homer Chèng-Yì Chu. Both names reflect the ideals and idols their parents tacitly worship. On Sappho’s side, the privilege of naming fell on the mind of her mother who was incessantly burrowing into the lives and landscapes of historical and fictitious characters. Convinced that she was the ancient Greek poetess Sappho ‘recloaked’, as she would explain, in another form, Sappho’s mother thought the honor of bestowing her first-born with this name was the highest honor she could pay to a ‘fresh’ being. Sappho’s father, a more earthy and erudite individual, desired his daughter to be wise. So, Sappho’s mother suggested Pallas as a middle name. Sophia, was the ideal choice of a linguist major who began his publishing career as a copy-editor for bilingual dictionaries. On Homer’s side, his father, a proud and self-righteous man, deemed it of utmost importance that his first-born son must exhibit the integrity of his own character. Chèng, coarsely translated, is ‘straight or upright’ and Yì ‘righteous’ – Chèng Yì was a proper fit for such a man of propriety. Homer’s mother, however, a shrewd soul, saw the tragic and heroic elements of the human condition clearly. The great epic of the blind poet-sage was her favorite Western tale from her studies. She understood that her little boy was an American by birth and needed a name that suited the land. She insisted that her son should have a Western name of stature. Homer was the obvious crowning title. Sappho, against the wishes of her mother-in-law, has given birth to Quincy with the aid of mid-wives in the company of friends and in the comfort of her home. Homer has been wholeheartedly supportive of Sappho’s decision which has greatly pricked Mrs. Chu’s temper. Furthermore, as long as he has been present, he has not permitted Mrs. Chu to harass Sappho with her incessant subtle comments as to how Sappho is so relaxed about keeping the home tidy or how Sappho seems to only know how to prepare countless american dishes. Homer, after years of practice, is now able to detect and snuff out his mother’s polite, underhanded criticism seconds before Mrs. Chu would utter them. In such scenarios, he would simply say ‘Mom’ sternly to silence her. She would look shocked and indignantly exclaim ‘What!’. And he would follow with ‘Nothing’. He could tell that she was about to say something quietly devastating by the eerie silence that preceded the cutting words to follow. And if he were to miss that cue, he knew how to read Mrs. Chu’s face; it was a familiar map. Her left eyebrow would arch, ready to spring, and her eyes would dart contemptuously to the right as her already pursed lips would tighten so tautly that her cheek bones would seem to grow. These gestures of loyalty from Homer to Sappho have given Mrs. Chu reason to believe that her son has been obviously being bewitched and manipulated by this brazen wy guo nu ren, or foreign woman, that is, Western woman. Why, she has inwardly stewed, when we’re eating, he serves her food before serving me. And when I politely decline to go out somewhere, even before I finish answering she interrupts with a unfeeling phrase like: In that case, we’re going to take a walk alone; he doesn’t even bother to ask again. He was never like this when we were at home. Why, I remember, when he was little, he was so respectful, making sure that I was always comfortable. He asked everything two or three times as a good son should. And although her thoughts do eventually trail off, the embers of her wrath turn more gray, glowing brighter with each fresh incident of Homer’s chivalry to Sappho. Repeatedly, Mrs. Chu has regretted that Lao Chu stayed behind. He would severely chastise Homer for his disrespectful behavior towards me, and he would humble that haughty girl, she has biliously thought during her present visit. Homer fears his father’s disapproval, and Mrs. Chu knows that well. Quincy Anne Chu is seven pounds and six ounces. She has reddish chestnut brown fuzz for hair, a tear-drop face, sculpted feather brows, feline hazel eyes with long veiling lashes, and full heart-shaped lips. Her complexion is rose-bronze. She is a beauty. Her mother and father gaze at her in disbelief as she is being wiped clean by the mid-wife. Homer, at first, holds her so gingerly that he nearly drops the little babe. But his confidence immediately grows when Sappho lays her hand on his shoulder to reassure him that he is doing fine. Once in her mother’s arms, with Sappho’s silky voice cooing over her, Quincy wiggles in return. She recognizes Sappho’s voice at once and seems extremely curious to find out from where the other voices are coming. The two mid-wives, then Rachel, Sappho’s cousin, then George, Homer’s best friend, and, finally, Kathyrn, George’s girlfriend – all take their turn to peer over Quincy Anne and all chime compliments alternating between how lively to how pretty Quincy is. Mrs. Chu is obviously pleased with her granddaughter but restrains everyone else’s natural inclination to bubble over with praise with this warning: “To praise within the spirits’ hearing is not wise for they could get spiteful and steal our present happiness away,” and then she whispers coarsely over Quincy Anne, “Look at this little pig.” Oddly, no one counter responds. Superstition finds unlikely bedmates. Never dreaming that after hearing his little sister dubbed Xiao Zhu, that is, Little Pig all her life he would hear his own daughter dubbed with the same epithet, Homer’s cheek involuntarily twitches. He glances at Mrs. Chu with a gaze that expresses both disbelief and total comprehension. The ritual, borne out of a time when the travail of birth yielded danger to both infant and mother, is that to deceive the malignant spirits who might plunder the newborn’s soul, parents and loved ones would often say phrases such as Oh, what a stinky pig when their precious little girl is born or Oh, isn’t this the ugliest little dog when their darling little boy is born. As a boy, Homer often wondered if these spirits were blind or plain stupid to be fooled in such a blatant manner. Homer’s little sister, on the other hand, had no knowledge that such was the tradition on a continent half an equator away. Growing up in Ann Arbor, Isis grew up thinking that she was given that term of endearment because of certain physical traits she exhibited. For unlike Homer who is wiry, olive-toned, and gaunt, Isis is cherubic, apricot-toned, and all cheeks. In Isis’s view, Homer was far more fortunate; his nick name was simply Ge Ge, that is, Older Brother. “Ge Ge,” addresses Mrs. Chu in mandarin, “when your firstborn girl is one month, we’ll have the banquet. When she comes, Isis will help me arrange everything. Your father has many friends in this city; he’s an important man.” Homer cringes at hearing the culturally entrenched, prejudiced intoning of the word ‘girl’. He simply stares at Mrs. Chu. His mouth droops as if he were about to drool while his eyes betray something entirely different, not the expected stupefaction, but an unadulterated insanity. Then, as if irrepressible tectonic forces were set into motion, Homer erupts, “That...is...it,” making a wild motion with his hands. At that moment, Homer’s face appears to have bared his skull. The flesh and skin around his eyes, his mouth, and his nose seem to have been blown and stretched back by some formidable wind displacing what was once his forehead, his cheeks, and his ears. The two mid-wives freeze. Kathryn, who is at that moment peering at Quincy, is so startled by Homer’s voice that she looks up and knocks heads with Sappho. Sappho muffles a terrified gasp. George looks dismayed, but stands ready, prepared to do whatever is necessary to keep the situation under control. And Mrs. Chu coolly looks at Homer. The phone rings.
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The telephone’s ring chiseled the scene into a momentary still life. In that frozen moment, the mundane captured eternity. Each person’s essence was no longer simply the hidden sketch inspiring the painted person. Each was now revealed, not as in a radiograph where a focused ray penetrates and illuminates the bowels of a being, rather by an inverted flaying where the bones and heart become the nails and skin, the skin and nails, the heart and bones. The inhabitants became the inanimate room, telling stories silently. The king-size futon, flanked by a corner bookshelf and an antique dresser, was situated in the far right corner of the medium size bedroom. A standing full length mirror, intricately framed, accompanied by an old burgundy-tinted leather armchair occupied the immediate right corner. A built-in wall of dark mahogany-red book shelves faced these furnishings. The bookshelf was completely stacked with books except for one eye-level center shelf that displayed a collection of pictures: Homer and Sappho, in black & white, wrestling in a mound of raked fall leaves; Kathryn and George canoeing in the middle of a placid lake, outlined by weeping willows; Sappho’s beautiful cream white Persian standing wide-eyed underneath a neighbor’s Dalmatian; Isis and Homer, in black and white, as children building a sand castle with a moat, both with bathing caps and nose-plugs; Rachel and Sappho covered in purple and mauve paint, brimming with accomplishment; and Mr. and Mrs. Chu with Mr. and Mrs. Jones standing stiffly in the shade of great red woods. Homer was standing with his back turned to the mirror, and his face turned towards Mrs. Chu. His left hand, palm down, seemed to have been reaching and grasping for something solid as if he were scaling a mountain, but his right hand was open, palm up, hungering, pleading as if for food. His shoulder blades were pressed down and drawn tightly together as if ready to recoil and shoot forth a chest of stored breath. His toes seemed to be digging trenches in the floor boards through his shoes. His limbs were clear and distinct. His whole being seemed tenuous for his heels were not grounded. In his face, despite the traces his voice’s fury left, the insanity in Homer’s eyes conveyed, not indignant rage, but despairingly, loss and ruin. By his stance, he could wage battles and win, but his war was destined to be lost, his heels having never entered the Styx. Leaning against the entrance of the doorway, George was standing behind Mrs. Chu and watching Homer. The moment caught George as a rhinoceros. The analogy is Aesopian and not a reflection of his actual resemblance for George was dashingly handsome. Chestnut blond wavy hair framed three-quarters of his face. Triangles of sweet gray-blue eyes, slightly asiatic and lion-like, and sensuous lips, outlined with a well-groomed goatee, gave George a genteel, knightly countenance. Normally, his eyes mirrored a sensitive mind and his open bearing rippled calmness over others, but the telephone’s ring awakened wild eyes of sheer will and ambition. His senses seemed to be a puncture-proof hide guarding all vulnerable opinions. His almost tyrannical readiness, seen in his tensely pretzeled arms and his widely straddled legs, portrayed a resolute protector. Unexpectedly, George looked menacing. In that instant, Sappho was reclining on the futon with a heap of down pillows supporting her back. Her face was a barren fire, all flames, but no heat. Her eyes, although directed at Homer, seemed to pierce the entire room with a profound reverence for the wonders of the spontaneous. But her parted lips seemed lifeless and cold. The remnant of her gasp was a stifled breath that lent to her being a breathless ecstasy. But the way she expectantly raised her chin and lifted her eyebrows, invoking images of past heroines who were ceaselessly waiting for the Divine, was sabotaged by the hunched-over, defeated slump in her shoulders and the arched compression of her back. Her arms, wrists, even fingers enveloped Quincy Anne with a tenderness both girding and fierce. Truly, Sappho was a mother. Her instincts exuded glory, her mind, victory. But her face and body testified that her womb had long been empty. By the window next to the corner bookshelf, Kathryn sat entranced and disconnected. Her left hand was resting on Quincy’s head, her right hand, bracing the futon. She looked angelic with her warm brown hair, her large deeply set, fiery-blue, half-moon eyes, her tiny Roman nose, and her fleshy pomegranate lips. Her soft ethereal gaze seemed fixed on nothing in particular, simply everything. Her body was relaxed and at peace even though a moment earlier she had knocked heads with Sappho. Her startled eyes were oddly distant and dazed, not riveted on the situation at hand. Her mouth was open and welcoming. Her being was oblivious. Between the wall of books and the edge of the futon, Rachel was leaning up against the window sill with one leg in front of the other. Boldly staring at Mrs. Chu with precision, her big sleepy-looking eyes belied her alertness. Her lips, closed and puckered, gave her squarish handsome face a pensive attitude. Her left hand firmly braced the sill as her right hand seemed ambivalent whether it should point to someone or something or whether it should remain simply a gesture with no imminent significance. Her chest was full of breath and her shoulders erect and assured. The canyons formed by the strained muscles in her neck bore witness to a storehouse of immense strength, restrained and held in check. The two mid-wives stood over Sappho mesmerized by the forces within the bedroom. They had witnessed birth after birth after birth, the calamities and upheavals of life’s offerings no longer brought great panic to them. Their eyes attested to a confidence that life gives what it gives, holds what it holds, and takes what it takes. Just like that. They gleamed like angels; they could absorb death and transmit hope. Their stance was yielding, even meek, but they shone of wonder and awe. They had the gift of understanding that people are destined to live, not simply survive, and this gift they gave freely. The shorter one of the two had her hands on Sappho’s toes. She had been massaging and applying pressure to all the vulnerable points of the foot and washing and rubbing Sappho down with warm water and ancient oils. These two were healers; bridges to the divine. The second ring of the telephone shattered this still-life. Kathryn answered the phone. Instinctively she signaled to Sappho by way of raising and lowering her chin and eyebrows and pointing with her eyes that it was Homer’s father on the line. Just then, someone rang the buzzer to the door. George relaxed and went to answer the door. Homer blindly followed George. The miracle of the unexpected kindness of a stranger, warranted or unwarranted, can restore, even to the wary, distrustful soul, faith, but to a desiringly hopeful soul, it is manna. At 7:15 AM on that particular brisk, September Sunday on which Quincy was born, Mrs. Roland was walking to a house sale with a quest. Upon arriving at her destination, she was met by an elderly woman and three small children. The children were apparently helping the woman place knickknacks on the already very cluttered table and stick adhesive price tags onto the items. “I want to write the prices, Grandma!” whined one little boy. Mrs. Roland was the first customer; she was made aware of that fact by the squeal of the grandchildren, “Look a customer — our first customer, Ma Ma, our first customer!” The mother, just stepping out of the front door with some final items, saw Mrs. Roland approaching and was already nodding a good morning to her customer and motioning to Mrs. Roland to feel free to look around. Mrs. Roland was elated. One of her favorite daily routines was looking for the ultimate sale, especially from a house or yard sale. She was the diamond hunter of shoppers. Her eyes, after years of experience, were trained to search, unearth, and recover jewels at unfathomable prices. She had been waiting all week long for this particular house sale, even losing sleep the night before, for she had an inkling that she would stumble upon a certain item. Not divulging her keen ability, Mrs. Roland browsed unsuspectingly around the tables laden with incomplete china sets, trays of silverware, mounds of Tupperware, hills of woven baskets, probably holding mountains of cellophane grass with chocolate bunnies at one time, and a collection of souvenirs from around the world. Other tables showcased infant clothes, shoes, old handbags, lamps, flower pots, kitchenware, and racks of women’s and men’s outerwear. Junk. For this I lost sleep. From the description given in the paper, they made it sound like everything had to go, including items like furniture. “There’s more inside,” coldly stated the annoyed woman , noticing the non-committal, hands-free browsing of Mrs. Roland, “I simply decided to put all the smaller items outside in the garage. Please feel free to go inside.” This remark lighted Mrs. Roland’s hope. Inside, she sighted what she came for. In the corner of the living room, next to two armchairs, a coffee table, and two corner tables — all identified as sale items by threaded price tags, stood a three-foot high, cherry wood cradle. The cradle was saddled on top of a finely crafted two-drawer bureau girded with sturdy rockers like those of a hobby horse. The rockers flared outward as if to unfurl wings. “It was made for my grandmother. My great-grandfather was a very gifted carpenter.” As she spoke, the woman seemed to read Mrs. Roland’s initial thoughts, “I had wanted to keep it for sentimental reasons, but, with moving abroad and all, we needed to whittle down our belongings to the essentials.” History is the natural reason for attributing worth to an object, and Mrs. Roland understood the significance of the woman’s speech. She deliberated on the price marked on the tag — six hundred fifty dollars. “Our children all slept in it; it’s comfortable and convenient. As you see for yourself, the two drawers are ideal for diapers, lotions, toys, and clothes,” she prattled, “But the most fascinating feature of this cradle is its insides. Here, take a look.” The woman opened the top drawer and pointed to the inside walls. The wall with the knob screwed into it, used the knob as the moon by which a few shepherds watched their sheep. From that scene, moving clockwise, the next scene was a choir of angels singing to the ruffians. Then, on the back wall, the panel illustrated the humility of the shepherds as shown by their prostrating, rag-clothed bodies. The quartet ended with a faint and distant portrait of a barn with animals illuminated by the light of one oil lamp and with a figure kneeling over a reclined figure with a swaddled bundle in her arms. “It continues in the second drawer. It’s truly exquisite. Great-grandfather was an artist. That artistic gene, I believe, has surfaced in my son.” continued to prattle the woman, but, by this point, Mrs. Roland was no longer attentively listening, she was deeply absorbed in the second drawer’s etchings. The second drawer portrayed four disparate scenes. “I can’t quite figure out the relationship of these four panels. And this panel doesn’t represent any Biblical story that I am aware of,” referring to the panel with the knob, “nor, obviously, this one,” referring to the scene counterclockwise to the former. The former incorporated its knob as a knot to a gnarl-trunked, wind-deformed, sparse, needle-leafed tree. Resting against the tree was a sage with wizened face, a thinning head of hair, a long beard, and probing, nearly shut eyes. A butterfly rested on the top branch of the tree, and a brook with rough stones lied behind the tree. The entire scene invoked a feeling of profound solitude and understanding. The latter scene was a procession of a portly smug man with scepter and crown, standing erect and naked underneath a canopy held by four attendants in Elizabethan dress. The populace were reverently bowing to this naked figure, all except the children who had bewilderment and amusement on their faces. Continuing around the drawer, the back panel portrayed a long-haired man with downcast face, crouched on the ground, scratching something in the dirt while an angry mob of men, dressed in ancient garb, looked on with accusing fingers and fists full of stones at a solitary woman. The woman, scantily clad, looked terrified and deeply forlorn. The final panel showed two men, hands clasped, embraced in a fierce struggle where one man had his head nestled into the other’s chest. The erect man, anchored with formidable, radiant wings, seemed confident of his stance whereas the other man seemed frustrated and in distress. Indeed, after scanning all the etchings, Mrs. Roland agreed with the woman through gestures of shaking her head in wonder to communicate that the art was astonishingly exquisite. But, not to look over-eager and lose her opportunity to possibly haggle at the price, Mrs. Roland maintained her distance. She finally uttered, “It’s beautifully finished.” “Yes, I believe it’s shellacked, preserving the natural color of the cherry wood which darkens with contact to light,” superciliously puffed the woman, and then she briskly added, “The price is non-negotiable.” At that, Mrs. Roland looked sweetly into the woman’s face and assured her, “Of course, of course...The color is so rich and lustrous. Did you know that shellac is made out of the secretions of a scale insect (a homopterous insect), the Laccifer lacca. The secretions are purified and dried into flakes or sheets of flakes. Then, to use these flakes, you have to dissolve them with a substance like mineral spirits, and when applied, it gives your work a hard, shiny shell. I wonder how someone came up with that idea...to think..to use the secretions of insects! Like silk...a fiber a worm produces to make its cocoons. Truly, we live in a wondrous world with people who witness and catch that wonder!” With that encyclopedic rambling, Mrs. Roland took a sweeping glance around the room surveying the rest of the items for sale and made a motion to button her overcoat. “You’re not at all interested?” queried the somewhat astonished woman. “Oh, it’s exquisite, just as you have said, but I’m afraid it’s out of my present budget,” sincerely spoke Mrs. Roland, ”I’ll have to consider it; perhaps, I’ll return later today.” She took the woman’s right hand into both her hands and began to shake it, “Thank you for taking the time to show it to me.” Such a pity, she thought, I wonder what it would have looked like after I had refinished it. For Mrs. Roland was adept in refinishing furniture. She had become a regular supplier to her son’s antique furniture business since her husband passed away some ten years ago; she had learned the craft from her husband. Her son would put up the capital for purchasing the items as well as the supplies needed for Mrs. Roland’s artistry. Usually, he was able to sell the refinished works for three to as much as five times the original purchased price. She would, then, receive a third to a half of the profits for her labor. He had other vendors, but Mrs. Roland’s works would leave the store as soon as they were brought in; her taste and craftsmanship were impeccable. Mrs. Roland and her son shared a mutual admiration. He was amazed with Mrs. Roland’s artistry and with her bravery; she had helped her husband with the accounting, the inventory, even the taxes of his antique furniture business, and stood by his side as an assistant in his workshop, but to have the courage to live a new life after his death, that took bravery. She was in awe of her son’s business acumen, his regal ways of handling people, and his simplicity of heart. He certainly did not have to take over the business when her husband suddenly died, but he did so willingly and happily. He was a brilliant man, and he could have chosen to do anything. At the time, he was studying to be a doctor with the purpose of doing research in conjunction with a medical practice. The Roland’s only had one son; they did not hoard him, nor did they covet his beauty and his independence. And Life’s great reward to them was a son who was true and possessed faith. At that moment, Mrs. Roland had four hundred dollars in cash on her; that was her budget for today. She had no desire to haggle with this woman. Strangely, she wanted to give the woman something. “This cradle is unique. You shouldn’t sell it for anything less than what you have already decided. I would even charge more.” “Actually, I originally thought eight hundred,” she confessed, “but my mother and my husband said that I was being too greedy.” “If I were you, I’d keep such an item. Put it in storage, and save it as a family heirloom. In fact, I’ll refinish it for you; it’s my hobby.” Oddly, this offer of generosity from one stranger to another was more intimate than what normally accompanies gifts between friends, family or even lovers where expectations dampen the giver’s radiance. With gentle relief, the woman sighed, “Thank you. I don’t know why you’re being so kind...it’s a lovely idea. You see, we’re planning to move to Taiwan for a number of years. My husband is a pastor and we’ve been asked to plant a new church. It’s indefinite as to how long our stay will be. I feel so foolish about this cradle matter. I’m simply being petty and greedy.” Mrs. Roland suddenly laughed, a beautiful, luxurious laugh. “Listen,” Mrs. Roland confided, “when my husband was asked to move to Arkansas, in my fear and insecurity, I threatened that if he didn’t dig up my beloved rose bushes and Japanese maples and bring them there intact, I would not go. Fortunately for me, he decided to go into business for himself and I was rescued from myself. I can only imagine how I would be behaving if I were in your position right now.” They both laughed, now, both at ease. “You know,“ the woman brightened, “I would like to keep it in the family. But we really can’t afford storage space for an indefinite number of years. We could ship it to our relatives,” she was thinking out loud, “But, you know, I have a better idea. You obviously wanted to buy the cradle for someone in mind. It’s probably for your son or your daughter. Listen, I’ll lend it to them for as long as they need it, and, in return, I’ll accept your offer to refinish this cradle.” |