Monkey Shines

This has been a tough week for me.

I was working on blog piece last Sunday about my family history. My grandparents owned a fine furniture making company in the Boston area. They specialized in beautiful early American and English furniture styles, mostly made of mahogany. The business was passed to my Uncle Tony who eventually retired to South Carolina. My cousin Tony took over the business after his father retired.

I could not remember the address of the company, but remembered that the original site of their business was in an old carriage making factory that was torn down and turned into what is now a famous landmark in Boston.

I “googled” the name of the company and got no results. I “googled” my grandfather’s name. Nothing. Then I “googled” his nickname and got a shock. There was a listing for an upcoming auction of my uncle’s “living” estate. I opened the catalog and was further shocked to see that almost everything in the house was listed, from the beautiful pieces that were hand made by my grandfather and uncle, to hand crocheted and embroidered pieces made by my late aunt Helen, to the cleaning supplies from under the sink.

My uncle – a bright eyed, sweet and funny man – is bedridden and suffers from multiple schlerosis. Before my Aunt died a year ago October, she lived with my uncle and cousin Dennis in a lovely, antique filled home. Dennis helped my aunt take care of Uncle Tony. After Auntie Helen died, he took on the responsibility himself .

Last fall, my cousin Anne moved to South Caroline from Maine. They made the decision to move Uncle Tony from his home to a nursing home around Thanksgiving. Anne organized the auction. After speaking with my parents, I learned that Anne had alerted my parents that there was to be an auction. Dad had asked Anne to advise him of the date and to let him know what would be auctioned, knowing that Uncle Tony owned lots of furniture that had been made by the family business.

I stumbled upon the auction by accident, called my folks to let them know about it and found that they had no idea that it was in the works. Last Sunday, Mom, Dad and I went through the entire catalog, piece by piece, on the phone. I was glad we were on the phone because some of the pieces we came across brought back such memories that I was crying to see them listed. We found lot after lot of beautifully made furniture, made by master craftsmen in Grampa’s shop.

Three pieces in particular made my head spin. There is beautiful mahogany and burl jewelry box, listed as salesman’s sample bureau. Grampa made three of them as presents – one for his daughter (Auntie Anne), one for my Aunt Helen (Tony’s wife) and one for my mother. My mother’s jewelry box has stood proudly on her bureau as long as I can remember. The second piece is a miniature handmade version of my grandfather’s workbench, made as a present for the men in the family. The one that my father has owned for years stands on the Biedermeier desk in the living room. The third auction lot that made me shake my head is a crystal rosary.

I do not know the details regarding my cousin Anne’s decision to sell everything. I cannot venture to guess why she would agree to sell off the contents of the house without telling the rest of the family. I keep running through plausible explanations in my head… maybe the kids in the family couldn’t agree on who would take what, maybe they are going to bid on pieces themselves, maybe she just doesn’t give a rat’s ass about the furniture or the family. I just cannot imagine making the same decision.

From childhood, I could tell the difference between Chippendale, Hepplewhite and Queen Anne styles. I know a good dovetail. I can draw a cabriole leg with my eyes closed. I’m not saying I had any special knowledge -the knowledge comes from living with fine furniture that was treasured and from being around people who were in the business and loved to talk about the trade.

In our family, each piece of furniture made in my grandparent’s shop is treated like a member of the family. They have names. Among others, there is the Federal chest, the Chippendale chairs, the thumb back chairs, the Biedermieir desk. They are dusted with a soft cloth. They are protected and cherished.

I judge people by how they care for furniture. In the 70′s, my sister Susan dated a guy from Brighton, Mass. who was a real piece of work. He prefered to wear polyester suits instead jeans. He thought he was funnier than he was and had a big goofy grin. When I think of him, the most damning memory is that he hung a wet towel from the finial on the four-poster rice bed while a guest at my parent’s house.

If you want “the look” from me, go ahead and put your feet up on your desk or lean back on two legs of a chair. I saw a “Trading Spaces” show once where they painted .. PAINTED!… the mahogany bedroom set that had been passed down to the woman. I shudder now to think of it.

So… I have spent this week torn apart by this auction. Right now, somewhere in South Carolina, people are touching my family’s treasures. They don’t know the history. They don’t understand the personal value of each piece. They will look at the furniture the same way I do when I go to an auction. “Hmm… nice piece… I hope I can buy it for $50.”

The auction is on-line and in person. It started on Thursday and will end on Sunday afternoon. All lots will end at the same time on Sunday night. You can make bids like on eBay. The bids are only increased if someone bids against you. I registered to bid and have bid on a few small pieces already.

NOTE: This process is how the oil painting done by my mother has only a 50 cent bid on it. I did NOT bit 50 cents on it. I bid MUCH, MUCH more. It only looks like I bid 50 cents because it is the opening amount by the auction company and no one else has upped the bid. I SWEAR, MOM, I THINK IT IS MUCH MORE VALUABLE THAN FIFTY CENTS! (No good turn goes unpunished… )

I spent this week trying to work out arrangements to retrieve the furniture if I am the high bidder. I have been on the phone with everyone in my immediate family, trying to convince them to partner with me on my mission to rescue what I consider to be family members. I admit that I am slightly obsessed by this. I keep telling them, “When will you ever have another chance to bid on Grampa’s furniture?”

I know we are in a recession. I know I should be carefully guarding every nickel that I have. I know that the idea of spending a small fortune to buy, then transport furniture halfway across the country is absurd to many people. I keep asking myself why this is so important to me. I can’t come up with anything else but the raw feeling that this stuff is family and you don’t let family get away.

So, what is the price of a memory? I supposed I will find out for myself on Sunday night.

Donna