|Okay, ready? NOBODY SMILE.|
My parents went on to marry in the late spring of 1970, and, according to lore, The Buffalo was given to my parents as a gift with much reverence and sincerity. Now, The Buffalo is basically the exact opposite of my mother's taste in decor, and my grandmother? Totally knew it. TOTALLY KNEW IT.But given that being a very young newlywed automatically makes one a very young new daughter-in-law, and my mother found herself in a sincerely uncomfortable spot. Hang The Buffalo? In her first home? The first place where SHE would be the lady of the house? Or... don't hang the The Buffalo. Risk offending and upsetting your new husband's mother.
The quandary. It burned.
Luckily, my parents are a couple of rather smart individuals, and ultimately they arrived at a solution which would more or less satisfy everybody involved, without causing any unnecessary drama. Invoking the law of the instrument, this particular problem began to look like nothing more than a nail. A nail which my father dutifully hammered into the wall of their new apartment. A nail which protruded from the wall yet hung no decoration, no painting, no macrame (the seventies, you know). A nail which waited ever-so-patiently for the planned visits from my grandparents, or the unannounced drop-ins by my grandmother on her own.
The nail waited.
When the times came, the nail was ready, and before answering the door, The Buffalo came out of the coat closet and sat proudly upon the wall in full view of my grandmother to her very great delight.When she died, The Buffalo was one of only a small handful of possessions for which my grandmother specified a directive in her will. She loved that Buffalo, and was incredibly proud of it. Between you and me, she was also incredibly proud of driving my mom a tiny bit insane, but more than anything... boy, was she ever proud of that nail.
|I call him Chewbaccahead.|