Poems and Stories

Thursday, September 13, 2018

Marguerite and The Cuban Paintings - Chapter 1




Wayne PA – 1985


Anne picked up the large claw hammer Jim had left on his work bench and an old flat head screwdriver and walked out into the backyard. The sun was just coming up and could be seen between the leaves still on the branches of the huge oak trees surrounding the house and grounds. The smallest of three old dusty, wooden crates lay on the patio where she had dragged it from Jim's hiding spot deep in the far corner of the basement. The other two crates were far too large for her to move; the largest measured 5 feet by 10 feet and the next smallest was 3 feet by 5 feet. Even the smallest one was very heavy as evidenced by the scratch marks on the basement floor and the twinge in her lower back. She been thinking about this for many months but was waiting for Jim to take another extended business trip so she could work alone, uninterrupted and unchallenged. She was alone and that was how she liked it. Just her and Petey, her fox terrier, who was at that moment sharing this experience with her and demonstrating his understanding of and solidarity with her views of the crates by urinating on the one she had out.


Havana, Cuba, 1925

The ancient, rusty freighter slid past the 295 year old El Morro Castle two hours after sunset on September 19, 1925 and entered Havana Harbor where it dropped anchor and, as required by international law and custom, raised the yellow quarantine flag. This flag was sufficient to alert the Customs officials that he was ready to be boarded. This flag was originally intended….. Another smaller square flag, no bigger than an ensign, was hoisted on a second flag halyard. This one had the simple image of a square knot. Meaningless to most sailors today, this was the signal agreed upon code between the Captain and the agents he was supposed to signal on shore. It was the symbol for Hercules who was represented on the flag of Cadiz, Spain.
The Captain raised his binoculars and searched the empty ramparts of the castle for any response to his signal flag. Nothing. He went below to his cabin, opened a greasy porthole and lit the Cuban cigar he had been saving since leaving Cadiz, Spain. He smiled as he reflected on the provenance of the dark, aromatic, tightly rolled cigar in his hand. It was a Quintero Y Hermano, purchased in Cadiz but made here in Cuba outside of Havana in the Vuelto Arriba region on the southern coast. The fragrant smoke soothed him as it circled his cabin and slipped, ghostlike out the open porthole, returning home.
The next morning he awoke at 6 am to go on deck and enjoy a blindingly brilliant sunrise which cast a golden pink aura on the white walls of the Castle as he waited for the customs official to come aboard to clear customs. The official arrived with his assistant, leisurely, on “island time” around 9 am. He suppressed his irritation and greeted them warmly in Spanish. After the usual pleasantries they glanced at the manifest listing the cargo, shrugged, smiled and accepted a significant “harbor clearance fee” and left the ship. No more than 15 minutes had elapsed to inspect the 125 foot freighter (research freighters of 1925) and its cargo. With this hurdle out of the way, Captain Vincente was now able to move his vessel to the dock. (add more description here) That evening, the agent he had signaled came aboard with four men to claim three large wooden crates. The crates contained over 100 priceless works of art and sculptures by masters from France, Italy, Germany and the Netherlands dating back to the 16th century.  However, seven would not seen again until May, 1935 when they were produced to satisfy a debt owed by Salvatore Buffardi, Italian art critic, to a Severino Marrozos y Andrade. In 1937, they were smuggled out of Cuba on a diplomatic flight to Miami, Florida.  From 1937 until 1985 they AGAIN remained hidden in the basement garage of a small townhouse in the suburbs of Philadelphia. The house was owned by my maternal grandfather, Nicolas E. Meneses, Consul General for Cuba under General Fulgencio Batista.


Wayne, Pennsylvania, 1985


She thought she knew what was in the three, strange secret crates but she had never seen their contents because Jim forbade her and young Jimmy from ever touching them. They had been delivered to her house by an unmarked white van, unloaded by two large strange dark men who did not speak English but only smiled and nodded to her endless questions. They dragged the three huge, dirty, dusty old wooden crates into the basement, scratching the floor as they could barely lift the largest one, and then, the nerve, wrapping a huge chain around all three boxes, locking a padlock to the chains and then, pocketing the key. She demanded that they give her the key but they only nodded, smiled, and walked back to the van and drove away. Morons!
Anne, still in pajamas and an old, cotton robe with coffee stains, sitting on a couch in the living room, ashtray full and overflowing, with a cigarette and a cup of black coffee in her hand, hesitated before she called Jim at his office. She knew she would have to get through Isabel, Jim's “secretary” to reach Jim. She hated Isabel and Jim knew it. Why he kept her on was beyond Anne's belief but not her understanding. Straightening up as best she could, she dialed the number she had called so many times before, wincing as Isabel answered, deliberately, on the third ring:
Attorney Meneses' Office. May I help you?”
Yes. Get Jim on the phone. Now.”
May I ask who's calling”
What a bitch! She knew my voice but always played this game!
You know who it is Isabel. It's Anne. Now get Jim on the phone!” Her voice was shrill and insistent but she thought she sounded weak and desperate and hated the girl even more for this feeling.
Of course, Mrs. Meneses. How are you?”
Fine. Where's Jim?”
Oh, he is in his office but has a client with him. Shall I tell him you called?”
No! Tell him I am on the goddamn phone and need to talk to him immediately!”
You know I would love to do that for you but Mr. Meneses insisted that he not be disturbed”
She faltered, wondering who was in his office that was so important that he could not take HER call. Then she spoke
You go in there and tell him I am on the phone! Now!”
You know I would love to do that for you but you know Mr. Meneses. May I tell him what this is in reference to?”
No! Just, just tell him I called and that he needs to call me back as soon as possible. It's urgent that I speak with him directly!”. She hung up, slamming the phone down hard so it would be clear to Isabel how important and mad she was. Bitch. Whore. I know she is fucking my husband.
Jim did not call her. He walked into the house at 7 o'clock, his usual arrival time after a long day at the office. Sure. She knew where he was and what he was doing with that whore, Isabel.
Honey, I'm home!”
Jim! Why didn't you call me back! I needed to speak to you about those men and those horrible, dirty crates and why are they locked up, and why wouldn't they give me the key! “
Hi Jim! How are you? Did you have a good day?” He mocked her with his usual smart-ass comment that he made almost every day.
I'm serious! What is going on?”
Lets have a cocktail and I will tell you all about it...”
That was ten years ago and he had never unlocked the chains or given her the key. However, she had found the key a few weeks ago in the basement. She had been cleaning the basement and mopping the floor when she bumped into an old oak secretary containing family photos and some of Jim's old textbooks from law school. The key was wrapped in waxed paper and had been taped to the back of the secretary. It dropped to the floor when she moved it to clean behind it. The key!
She ran over to the corner of the basement where the crates had been stored and locked up with chains and the old padlock. She tried the key. It worked and the chains fell to the ground, noisily. She froze where she was and listened for Jim or Jimmy upstairs. Nothing. Fearing discovery by her husband, yet not knowing why she should fear him, she quietly replaced the chains, locked them, and put the key back in its hiding place. Another time. Yes, another time when she could unlock the secrets of those strange wooden crated with Spanish words all over the outside and crumbling customs stickers and faded stamps that she could a barely read:

ENTREGAR A -
NICOLAS E MENESES
1123 ARDLEIGH STREET
YEADON PENNSYLVANIA USA
DE -
SEVERINO MARROZOS Y ANDRADE
HAVANA CUBA


She waited one more agonizing week. After Jim had gone to his office, she walked into the basement, unlocked the storage area and dragged the largest crate out into back yard and stood there staring at the crate for a few minutes. Then she picked up the hammer and screwdriver and went to work. The more she struggled with the tools and the stubborn, rusted nails securing the crate's lids, the angrier she became. A small drizzle of saliva dripped unnoticed down the right side of her open mouth until the first lid came away in broken pieces revealing a huge oil painting set in a gold-leafed wooden frame...
to be continued ….FTC – 7/19/18

NOTES FOR REST OF CHAPTER ONE -




  1. Cite sale of artwork to National Museum of Fine Arts by S. Buffardi – 1925
  2. Refer to or copy letter from Cuban Clerk – 1935
  3. Describe Meneses last, diplomatic flight from Cuba in 1937 with family, possessions, and paintings aboard
  4. VARIATION! -
    1. Nicholas Meneses goes to Cornell, becomes agent for family sugar business
    2. Use picture of Meneses in 1948 at port in Philadelphia, PA, USA with sugar from Cuba! (assume paintings smuggled inside shipment and then taken to Yeadon, PA)
My grandfather is the short one on the left holding, what else...a cigar



Sea Legs


Disclaimer: I have no right to write this poem. I hurt my right leg while doing something stupid; like pretending to be 30 instead of 70...However, pain, in any and many forms, can be an inspiration. So I wrote this to my old captain to honor him and to try to feel the pain that he has conquered.


It was just the one leg
but the label burned inside
in the 1940’s
There was no place to hide

Polio took many
Some endured, not thrive
But young Jim
would succeed, not merely survive

Many boats he would sail
on Barnegat Bay
No help needed
Sailing, his way

At first a walker
and later a cane.
Both were worthless
on a deck’s angled plane.

On a boat he found
That he could make a stand
With one good leg
and two strong hands.

Tom Crowley
former mate on the Adventure 1971-72

The Carpenters Trunk


He was tired of so many tools
to work his craft around town
He had to make a trunk
Much easier to carry around.

The first one was too small
The next one too big by far
His final version sits here now
It will barely fit into the car.

For years it served him well
Expanding as his practice grew
leather pouches for razor sharp chisels
Wood slots for his saws; just two.

The tools were gone forever,
The winter mice didn’t mind
They built their nests, quite happy
To share this historical find.

I could sell it now on ebay as
A victim of re-purposing’s curse
Or I could keep it here in the attic
To inspire new prose and verse.

William Kidder’s family may wonder
What became of Uncle Bill’s trunk
Perhaps they will find it now
when it sits next to more local “junk”

At The Lincolnville Historical Society
Visitors can delve into the past
A Kidder may see this piece here
And be pleased that it was able to last.


Toys of Summer




Summer kids bring tons of toys
They fill the bathtub and
bring secret joys

They drive you crazy
trying to pick them up
under foot and broken cup

But when they leave
and you clean up the mess
you understand why you
miss them most

Once the toys are put
in their winter place
time stands still
and seems to erase

The joy of toys
and the memories
of the children
that brought them.

The deck is clear
The laundry is done
The toys put away
The children are gone.

As soon as they leave
In the quiet time
You miss them the most
and know life is sublime.

Who cares about madness?
when the grandkids arrive.
You love it because
You are glad to be alive.

A simple hug from a child
restores body and mind
Despite the sore muscles
and the bruises in kind.

Now you wait for the call
or the facetime show
As they reach through the phone
so that you will both know
That love transcends time
But you must settle your mind
So the toys will come back
With the kids right behind.

FTC