Charlotte cherishes her blue bandana. This type of bandana is often associated with western attire, do rags and country folks. No doubt about that. But this one is truly extra special for its history.
“You ought to get rid of this ratty old thing, mom.” Carlene Davis leveled the large plastic frame that held a badly faded, formerly deep blue bandana.
The old thing was ratty with wear and tear and tears and snot from decades of overuse. A hole burned into the lower right edge was exactly the size of a 7.55 x 53 mm Mauser cartridge. The only thing not overly faded was a hand-sewn letter T in the center and a couple of dark reddish-brown stains. Apparently, the only thing holding the piece of cloth together was the smudged glass in the frame.
Carlene was a doting daughter, a member of the Southern Baptist Women’s Missionary Union, the Library Volunteers, and half a dozen community organizations in the small town of Token, Arkansas. She was 54 years old, portly in appearance and always slightly overdressed in style. Her gray hair was poorly disguised by whisps of light green, purple, and red streaked through-and-through in an attempt to recapture a youth she had never really experienced.
Her mom, Charlotte Tetrozoa, was the picture postcard image of a modern-day granny. She also was on the portly side, something she never tried to disguise. Her gray hair was pure gray, something she would never have thought to disguise either. She stopped her knitting and pointed a needle at her daughter. “Your granddaddy carried that ‘ratty thing’ into the trenches back in the Great War. Some German sharpshooter put a hole through that bandana and right into his chest. That blue rag plugged the hole and saved his life, young lady.”
“Mom, I’ve heard the story a thousand times.”
“Not enough times, I see. Your daddy took it with him all the way through the second great war.”
“I know, mom.”
“He took it to Korea.” She paused and sniffed. “That’s your daddy’s blood in the corner.”
“I know all that, mom, but it’s so . . . Well, it’s ratty, mom.”
“It’s yours when I’m gone. Do with it as you want, then.”
“Mom!”
“Enough of this. I got to fix supper. You staying?”
“Of course, mom.”
A week later Carlene burst into her mother’s home. She was practically giddy. Charlotte said, “What’s got you so agitated?”
“The university wants to expand their collection of historical artifacts and they’re really wanting stuff from World War I.” She waited for a specific response that never came.
“Mom!”
“That’s interesting.” Charlotte continued stirring her pot of pinto beans. She never looked up.
“The bandana, mom. That’s just what they’re looking for.”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’d be in a museum, mom.” Charlotte, focused on her cooking, didn’t see the rolling of her daughter’s eyes. Carlene looked over to the framed source of her grief and seemed to be imagining a paint-by-the-numbers substitute.
“That bandana is family. It’s right where it’s supposed to be.”
“They’re paying money if they like something–real money. They got a grant.”
“You don’t sell family, darling.”
“It’s an historical artifact.”
“You’re trying too hard, daughter.”
Carlene took a moment to take in a deep breath. “They have an appraiser. I’ve met him.
“I’m sure you have.”
“He’s real interested in that bandana. Can I at least bring him over to look at it?”
“Of course, dear.” Charlotte waved her right hand over the top of the bubbling pot and breathed in the earthy aroma. Her glasses fogged up and she took them off. “That’ll do. Are you staying for supper?”
Carlene showed up the next morning with the appraiser. Charlotte was waiting with a tray of coffee and cookies when she heard the knock on the door. Stedson Alborty was not exactly what she expected. Instead of a “university type,” he was a large, handsome man dressed in blue jeans and a work shirt. He wore a baseball cap emblazoned with LSU, Louisiana State University, in gold on a dark purple background. His eyes went immediately to the framed bandana.
“Not to be rude, Mr. Alborty, but let’s chat a bit first.” Charlotte gestured to the couch and chairs around her coffee table. “Why are you so interested in what my daughter calls a ratty old thing, Mr. Alborty?”
Alborty finished a sip of coffee. “Stedson, please. Call me Stedson.”
“Certainly.” Charlotte tended to be more formal than her nature when meeting people for the first time. She was not standoffish, merely observant.
Alborty was very polite and he made a fine and only a mildly passionate presentation. He spoke of the need for preserving history. He called it “real history,” the memories and artifacts of people who were really “there.” Charlotte eventually began nodding in agreement. Carlene nodded so vigorously that she was in danger of pulling a neck muscle. Alborty said, “I have a substantial budget. More than that, if I don’t spend it all, I’ll never get a bigger acquisition budget next year.”
“What exactly does that mean to me, mister . . . Stedsen?”
“It means I pretty much have to offer you more than top dollar for your bandana.” He smiled and scribbled a dollar figure on a notepad he carried in his pocket.
“This is quite a sum for a ratty old thing.”
“Mom!” Carlene reached over and took the notepaper. “Oh, my!”
Alborty said, “Like I told your mother, this really is a one-time offer.”
“Oh, mom, you have to. You just have to.”
Charlotte leaned back into her couch and thought for a long moment. She looked at her daughter. “This will make you happy?”
“Me. And a lot of other people. A museum, mom!”
Charlotte looked over to the bandana in its cheap plastic frame. It had slipped again and was hanging at an angle. She sighed and said, “If that’s what you want . . .”
Alborty sat up straight and seized the opportunity. “Thank you, Mrs. Tetrozoa. For me and the university. And for the people who will see this in the museum. I will be by in the morning with a check and you can hand over the bandana then. Is that all right?”
Alborty and Carlene stayed only long enough to be polite before leaving. As she heard them drive away, Charlotte leaned back and took in a long look at the frayed and stained bandana.
Alborty arrived at ten a.m. the next morning. Charlotte was not in the least bit surprised to see her daughter with him. When they entered the house, Charlotte was nearly frantic.
“I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Stedson. Carlene. I am so, so sorry.”
Charlotte motioned them farther in and led them to the kitchen table. An old cardboard box rested on the edge. “I . . . I wanted to make sure our bandana would be, you know, proper for a museum.” She wrung her hands nervously.
Charlotte ducked her head and reached into the box. “I wanted it clean and pressed for you, Mr. Alborty.” She pulled out what looked like a large white handkerchief.
Stedson leaned in for a closer look. He saw a hole the size of a WWI German bullet in one corner. A badly washed-out letter T dominated the center. The blood stains were completely gone. “I am so sorry.”
Stedson’s shoulders sagged just a bit. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. “Well, Mrs. Tetrozoa, obviously . . .”
“Of course. I understand. I really am sorry. I just wanted to—”
“That’s all right. Things happen. Your loss is our loss, but I understand how you must feel. I, too, am sorry.” He seemed anxious to leave.
Charlotte folded the white cloth. “Well, at least I still have something.”
There was not much left to say. Carlene had bummed a ride with Alborty, so they left together. When they were gone, Charlotte walked over to the wall where the framed bandana had been. She reached behind the nearby couch and retrieved a paint-by-the-numbers painting of a farmhouse on a rural road. It was something she grabbed at a neighbor’s yard sale the afternoon before. She hung it and stepped back, nodding with appreciation.
That evening before going to bed, Charlotte pulled open a bottom dresser drawer in her bedroom. She pulled out the old plastic frame still holding in the old bandana. She wiped off a fingerprint smudge, smiled with approval, and placed the heirloom back in the bottom drawer.
She slept very well that night.
Why do we take pictures with famous people? We want some of the stardust fame rub off on us too.
I am certainly not a stage hog. But—The most famous picture, which I had always wanted, would have been with Elvis Presley. I was only a teenager when he died, cried my eyes out. But Gisela Solms-Wildenfels got a shot with Elvis when he was stationed in Germany. I stumbled into Gisela at a flea market in Wolfratshausen, where she was selling Hummel cups and other trinkets. She is of that Elvis generation. And this one encounter gave her joy to last a lifetime. She gifted me a copy of her Elvis picture.
When I was four years old, my parents took us to the zoo. It was spring time. Somewhere around the miniature goats, there was a green activity patch: May bug hunt. Instead of Easter eggs, the activity team had laid out lifelike chocolate bugs wrapped in printed tin foils. At a shot gun start, they let a bunch of us kids inside that corral. I picked up a bug and proudly showed it off to my parents.
