Heirloom

My brother is crazy. He really is.

He and his wife are moving to Florida in November. The house they bought down there is completely furnished. Even down to dishes in the kitchen cabinets and sheets on the bed. All they'll need to bring with them is their dog.

Thus, they're selling everything they have, lock stock and barrel.

Now, my brother has been the recipient of whatchya might call 'Family Pieces.' That is to say, things that belonged to my grandparents and great aunts and uncles. Today and tomorrow, they're having a yard sale, and hoping to turn most of these pieces into cold, hard cash.

To my brother's way of thinking, this makes perfect sense. They need the money. Most of their stuff is dark wood and that wouldn't work down in Florida. And he's not a sentimental sort.

A few weeks ago, he asked me if there was anything I wanted. I asked about my grandfather's smokestand. My grandfather and I were close, born exactly sixty years apart, to the hour. His smokestand stood next to the sofa in the livingroom of their home at 192 Duncannon Avenue in the Olney section of Philadelphia. It's basically a humidor with legs.

Yeah, I wanted the smokestand. I told my brother this, and he offered it to me for twenty dollars.

Yup! That's my brother! Counting every penny.

Let me pause to explain here. Shocked? Appauled? I guess I'm used to it. I didn't bat an eye. He is who he is. He means no harm. If I protested, he would have looked at me uncomprehending, like Mr. Spock trying to respond to Nurse Chappel's protestations of love. In fact, I find it sort of endearing, it's so predictable.

So, I asked how much he wanted for it. Twenty bucks. I slipped him a twenty on the spot, knowing that if I only promised and someone at the yardsale offered more, he'd sell it without a thought.

Last night, in anticipation of the yard sale, my brother asked me to help him move furniture around. I was happy to help. We lugged stuff downstairs. All three floors. We were at it for about an hour. At the end of the evening, I told him that if he was ready to give up the smokestand, I'd take it with me. He said he was, but he realized that he had quoted me the wrong price. It was forty dollars.

Did I bat an eye?

No. No I did not bat an eye. I gave my brother another twenty.

So now, the smokestand is crammed into my room. I now have a place for all my cigars. And it's the same place that my grandfather used to store his tobacco. (Pall Malls.)

I love my brother. I love my grandfather. I love my smokestand.

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