Part
One: Some rough notes for my next
Soliloquy #81.
The one etching I have left from that day is by Paul
Geissler [1881-1965] and it hangs on the wall in my
study. It shows a man using a long, pointed stick to
pick through the garbage gathered in the gutter of an old city a century
ago. My fondness for the piece is enhanced by the
story of my finding it in the garbage. The others I
no longer remember well, except that one was of a
fountain.
When I was living in Brookline, Massachusetts, a town
adjacent to Boston, my future first wife became angry
with me for reasons I can no longer recall. She sent
me home to my own apartment. En route home I took a
circuitous path to explore neighborhoods I'd never
seen. It was during this meandering that I found a
pile of trash on the curb. My impression was someone
had died and all his or her belongings had been
gathered and disposed of in a cavalier manner. I had
pulled from the trash three etchings, matted and
framed. There were also wedding pictures. I don't
remember if I took the photographs away, as I should
have done, if only to dispose of them in a more
respectful manner. After all, whoever these people
were, they were now my benefactors. I kept one of the
three etchings. Before we were married, my first
wife-to-be talked me out of at least one of the other
etchings. Her argument was that if she hadn't lost
her temper and sent me home at that propitious
moment, I would never have stumbled on this little
treasure haul. I think I gave her the second etching
as a gift after our divorce.
Part
Two: Research for my Soliloquy #81.
Last night I went into my notebook-journal to refresh
my memory as to the details. The etchings were all
framed and behind glass, wrapped in The Boston Globe
from April 4th, 1955, but one had been torn open and
I caught a glimpse of it. I found them on the 16th
February 1976, twenty-eight years ago. According to
my journal entry, I went back the next day in hope of
finding more. While I didn't find any other etchings,
I found photographs, in particular two, large
black-and-whites, studio shots from Kagan Art Studio
in Brooklyn, New York. The first was a wedding
portrait, the man in top hat and tails, the woman in
a white gown spilling across the floor towards the
camera. They stood stiffly erect, unsmiling, the
woman holding an immense bouquet with both arms. In
my notes it reads, "I assume, but could never
know, that these people are my benefactors."
The second photograph was of a little child, a baby,
posed in a high chair and again unsmiling. Someone
had written on the matte that held the photograph,
"Love from Herbert Dooskin." It might have
even been written by the child, himself, as the
printing was large and sprawling.
At this point, according to my journal, a woman
pulled up in a new car and began taking bundles out.
"Very attractive and amiable, a sincere smile on
her face at all times. Skinny. Dressed plainly in
jeans and shirt." She couldn't be sure, but she
knew of an elderly doctor that had just died, his
wife having died not many months prior.
I didn't save the photographs, but my written
memories inform me that back in 1976 I brought them
home to study for a while, dispatching them with
difficulty and melancholy. Having freshly reviewed my
notes, I did an Internet search and found three
listings in the United States for people named
Herbert Dooskin. I left messages on all three
answering machines, but no one has called me back. I
guess I am entitled to keep the etching.
Part
Three: Epilogue to my Soliloquy #81.
Herbert Dooskin returned my call. My words stumbled
as I tried to explain to him - what, that I was
picking through the trash of his recently deceased
grandparents twenty-eight years ago and might now be
in possession of a small piece of his inheritance?
How would I even know if he is the same Herbert
Dooskin? But he is. He is all three Herbert Dooskins
with whom I left telephone messages, my having found
his home, his business, and his summer residence. And
as I described the photographs, less from memory and
more from my notes, he was apparently looking at
identical prints.
Mr Dooskin was startled and excited. There is no
mistaking his joy upon learning he will now have some
possession of his grandparents, a memento, to pass on
to his grandchildren. And so the return of the
etching has been arranged. I will get to see copies
of those same images I so reluctantly discarded years
ago, of his grandparents marrying and photographed in
Kagan's studio, and of him in a highchair. I have
tentatively arranged to meet him and his wife Ruth,
and to deliver the etching.
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