Pearl's Gift

Pearl’s Gift

“Hi, would you like to buy some perfume,” says a little girl with dirty blonde hair as I walk around the corner. Her voice is a pleasant interruption to my daily stroll through the neighborhood park. She points to her display of glass bottles. Some are colored brown, some blue and several clear. Each one is filled with varying degrees of what appear to be mucky green pond water. “You can pick which ever one you want” she says. Stepping up to the wooden board strew across two rocks for a makeshift shelf, I admire her collection. “Wow, where did they come from?” I inquire. “Me and my brother found them.” She answers happily and she points into the grove of trees behind her. Then I see an older boy that is the spitting image of her carrying even more treasures to put on display in their market. He stumbles up the hill with a rusted can, a plastic cup from a local fast food restaurant and more bottles in his hands. The quarry several feet down the slope seems to serve as the warehouse to replenish their inventory. “Okay, I think I like this pretty blue one.” I say and pretend to smell the make believe “perfume”. “Twenty- five cents please.” she states. I dig in my coat pocket hoping to find some loose change. Mixed in with my car keys and some crumpled up tissues, I find a quarter. When I hand it over, she exchanges the bottle with a big smile. A grin passes between the two siblings in honor of their transaction.

I consider depositing the bottle in the waste can on my way out of the parking lot. But I’m afraid the two budding salespeople I just left will discover it. So instead I pour the dirty water out on the macadam and deposit the bottle on the front seat of my car. I know by placing it there, it is destined to roll off and join the never- ending abyss of junk that has already accumulated.

The following day I’m curious to see if the prior days merchants are still at the park. So, I trace my steps. I turn the corner again only to find the spot empty today. Lying on the ground are the board, rocks and glass remnants from the charming display I visited yesterday. I’m disappointed, but decide to wander over anyway and poke around. I sit down and reminisce about the times my sisters and I played store when we were young. We pretended to be the store clerk. We scanned grocery items, price checked them and bagged them for our so-called customers. Mom’s canned goods were borrowed from the kitchen cabinets and we used Monopoly money in my pink toy cash register. I think to myself. “It’s nice to know that kids today still play outside and use their imagination.” “Whether working at a mock grocery store or make-believe perfume counter the time is well spent.” The scrambling of a playful squirrel startles me. And he tugs me from my childhood reverie. I watch as he forages for some black walnuts hoping to fill his empty cheeks. As I get up to leave, something gold glistening through the leaves catches my eye. So, I push the leaves around with my sneaks to see what is hidden there. I continue to brush the leaves with my foot, and a little black notebook appears. I pick it up, dust off the dirt and see that there is a name and address engraved in gold letters on the front cover. I read the name “Francis D. Grange” along with what must be his address and telephone number. I continue to investigate further. Some of the writing inside is still legible and the pages are barely worn so I assume the book hasn’t been here very long. I wonder if Francis is missing his notebook. Even though the handwriting is a bit cryptic, I can still decipher the words written on the pages. I see a check list with the words pontil, brand, thread, color, lip, and graphics. And I see a matching column with the words medicine, vaseline, uranium, barber, bitters. I can’t make sense of any of this, but my foolish imagination doesn’t stop me from trying. “Are they ingredients to a secret recipe?” “Is it a mysterious formula of some sort?” That’s when I realize the address on the notebook is only several blocks away. I need only to take the short trip through the neighborhood and find the owner to solve the mystery.

It takes only a few minutes and I’m on Front street, the street listed on the notebook. I study the houses to locate the address and I see a brick rancher with the matching numbers.

The house looks friendly enough so with notebook in hand, I ring the doorbell. I hear the scampering of tiny feet in response. I am pleasantly surprised to see the same sweet little girl I met at the park standing there at the front door. She looks up at me, sees the notebook, and yells “Grandpa, the lady I met at the park yesterday is here and she has your note book.” I hear larger footsteps and a pleasant grey haired, gentleman appears. “Hello, are you “Mr. Grange?” I ask. “ I believe I have something that belongs to you.” He recognizes the little black book and his face beams with gratitude. “There you are my friend” he whispers. I can see by the look on his face that the book is very special to him. He thanks me for returning the book and I ask him if he would mind interpreting the lists for me. I tell him that my curiosity has gotten the best of me. He eagerly explains to me how his late wife Pearl gave it to him. And when she got sick it was her way of keeping him occupied. She had always wanted him to spend more time with their Grandchildren. By providing the lists it was her subtle way of making that happen. He points to a page in his notebook and says the lists are characteristics of rare glass bottles that can be found around the U.S. For example, “Does the bottle have a “threaded” top?” “Is the “brand” distinguishable?” “Are the “graphics” on the glass clear?” “Is there a unique “elongated neck?” Does the “pontil” at the bottom indicate it was hand blown?” He goes on to tell me that a rare blue “OK Bitters” bottle can be sold at an auction for $20, 0000. “Hence our quest began.” “My perseverance lies in knowing that if I was lucky enough to find Pearl, one of the most extraordinary woman in the world, I can surely locate an obscure blue bottle.” “That is what my grandchildren were in the process of doing when you came across them at the quarry.” “So far, our excavations have yielded some depression glass, vintage pyrex and a few milk glass bottles. Although they are not near as valuable, they make for a nice collection of vases filled with wildflowers on the windowsill. We enjoy the pursuit and the time we spend together just the same.

After a few minutes, he looks up and says, “ I’m rambling again.” “I tend to get a little caught up talking about this special hobby of mine.” He thanks me yet again, and we say our goodbyes. I hop in my car, wave and pull away. My tires make a loud “thump” over the curb on the way out, causing an unusual rattling sound. The rattle seems to be coming from under the passenger seat. And after I admonish myself for never cleaning out my car, I reach down and attempt to feel what the culprit is. I try to pull out the bottle that did, in fact, roll onto the floor of my car as predicted. I stretch my arm over and tug on the threaded top lip. I continue to wrap my hand around the thin elongated neck and grab at it. But it’s stuck so I yank again on the indented pontil. Feeling this causes my heartbeat to speed up so I pull a little more delicately. My breathing becomes heavy when the aqua coloring presents itself. I’m basically in full blown heart attack mode when I pull the bottle completely out from under the seat and I notice the very distinguishable graphics “OK Bitters” on the front. “Foot on break.” “Car in park.” I repeat to myself. “Foot on Break.” “Car in Park.” I can barely extract myself from the car in such a hysterical state but I manage somehow. I look up at Mr. Grange and his grandchildren as they stand at the front door gawking at me. I must look quite deranged to them at this point. I’m yelling, “Blue bitters, big lips, Pearl!” When I finally reach them, Mr. Grange is bewildered. So I hand him the bottle from my car. When he sees it, he smiles from ear to ear. He wants to be sure so he refers back to his notebook, and begins to check the boxes listed there. One by one he determines we have, in fact, found the illustrious bottle Pearl cited in the black book. Francis engulfs me and then his grandchildren into an affectionate group hug. He looks upward towards the sky and says “Pearl would be so proud of us!” We shimmy our way out of Francis’s constricting yet well intended bear hug and look up with him. As we do, an aqua blue finch appears on a poplar tree in the yard. She winks at us and flies away.