I stumbled upon the
most wonderful find today. I'd love to share it with you, but
I can't. All I can tell you is that my treasure is located in
lovely Kennebunkport, Maine, summer home of the Bush dynasty—at
least Bush the Elder. Bush the Younger seems to prefer his Texas
ranch where he can play cowboy in his ten-gallon hat and high-heeled
boots.
But to get back to
my treasure: It's a charming little antique shop—actually
a mini-museum-filled with exquisite, pricey objets d'art from
all over the world. I can't reveal the name of the shop because
the proprietor (whom I will call Mr. X) does not want any notoriety.
Can you believe it? A business owner who disdains publicity and
refuses even free advertising? Alas, it's true.
Mr. X is not concerned
with making money. He doesn't need any. He earned enough while
toiling in Manhattan for many years as a corporate honcho, said
he, to support what apparently is more of a hobby than a business—collecting
and displaying his precious wares and recounting their history
to anyone who wanders in and shows even a slight interest. "I
don't care if people buy anything," said Mr. X. "I just want them
to enjoy looking. Their appreciation is payment enough for me."
"You can tell this
Venetian glass compote is an antique," he said, caressing a $1,500
confection, "because of the gold dust embedded in its base-the
old craftsmen always did that." An intricately carved, highly
polished (and highly priced) china display cabinet—an exact
replica of one that might have graced the digs of Marie Antoinette—came
from the estate of a prominent, recently-deceased Kennebunkport
doyenne, he told me. And that rare Chinese urn once resided in
the imperial House of Chan—no, wait. I think that's a Cantonese
restaurant in Ogunquit. I'm confused because he told me so many
stories, each more fascinating than the last.
But Mr. X's most intriguing
tale concerned an unusual, oversized wooden Canada goose with
a barrel stave body nesting in a loft that overlooks the precious
artifacts below. It doubtlessly has the lowest monetary value
of anything in the shop, and it is the only item that is not for
sale. He keeps it as a memorial to a pet Canada goose he had owned
as a child. Strange, but true. Mr. X (or, rather, Master X at
the time) acquired this unusual playmate when he heard a fluttering
sound while playing on the beach one day. In a nearby patch of
sea grass a Canada goose, its wing broken, struggled unsuccessfully
to fly. Little Master X ran home and told his grandmother who
returned with him to rescue the goose. They took it to a veterinarian
who said it should destroyed because it would never be able to
fly again. Master X was devastated, so Granny insisted that the
vet patch up the creature. He did (at a fee Master X was never
allowed to divulge to his parents), and they took the goose home
where they pampered and coddled it.
"It lived for fifteen
years," said Mr. X. "I made a special bed for it and a little
harness so I could take it for walks every day." A flightless
fowl being led through the streets of Kennebunkport on a leash
must have been a strange sight indeed, even to Maine-iacs accustomed
to eccentricities.
Saving Master X's goose
wasn't Granny's only act of kindness. Another was her penchant
for taking home strangers she met while shopping or strolling.
Ignoring her family's warnings that these people might be burglars
or murderers, she'd serve them cocktails on her patio overlooking
the Atlantic, followed by a wonderful dinner. But there was a
catch, Mr. X recalled. After dessert, the guests had to listen
to Granny play the piano and sing for an hour. Unfortunately,
she didn't do either well. "But her tin ear was her only flaw,"
said Mr. X. "She was a truly special lady."
He credits Granny with
instilling in him a love of life's finer offerings and the gracious
past. No web site for Mr. X, and absolutely no E-Mail. Not even
a ballpoint pen. "I write all my letters longhand—and with
a fountain pen," he boasts. Actually, I'm surprised he doesn't
use the quill with which John Hancock signed the Declaration of
Independence.
One question stopped
the free flow of Mr. X's narration: "Do George and Barbara shop
here often?" I asked. "They do," he whispered cautiously, "But
I can't tell you when."
Unfortunately, I must
be equally circumspect and not disclose the name of his shop.
However, if you poke around town, you'll find it. Just look for
the goose in the loft.
But, shhhh! Don't tell
Mr. X I sent you.
