Why, of course there's a story here.
Be ye not deceived--that's me, not Hugh Glass, and yes that is a buffalo hide around my shoulders. But no, I didn't somehow slay the beast myself somewhere south of Spirit Mound. I bought it on ebay, a decade already, sometime after we built this house out here in the country.
Act one: Let me make this clear--the desire to own and display a real buffalo hide was mine alone. Barbara hoped that, like other fancies, this one would simply ride off into the frontier west. Not only wasn't a buffalo hide high on her list, it had no place at all. The purchase thereof was all me. She was a reluctant hostess, maybe no more so than at the moment I laid it out down here on the basement floor. It's huge, like the animal from whence it came. And it's not really a rug. It's thick and mangy and humped, and just because its's there on the floor doesn't mean that anyone would want to walk on it or rest their tired posteriors thereupon.
So my dream had immediate problems I'd not considered when I bought the darn thing. I liked it, although once it was down it was hard not to see things my wife's way--it took over the basement study the way a buffalo might have had we let one wander in through the back door.
Act two. Cat loved it. That first night the hide was down here, the cat's curiosity prompted a visit that resulted in what I'd never imagined, but understood once it happened--he peed on the dumb thing, marking it maybe, if I can be so bold as to interpret cat culture. When we discovered the wet spot, what we knew was that night's anointing would begin a purposeful ritual. Once he laid his claim thereupon, he'd return to the treasure once more.
Act three. So the buffalo hide went outside to shed the odor, and stayed out there for quite some time as I remember, before being rolled it up like a shag carpet and hefted up and over a tall bookcase, way up high where the cat couldn't get at it.
All of that is already a cat ago, you might say. This new guy--he's now been with us for years himself--has occasionally eyed it but wisely never tried to get up that high. Whatever smell may have lingered is long gone. Lo, it's been way up there where no one sees it for years. Very sad.
Act four. The Schaaps are molting, although the metaphor doesn't quite reach since there'll be no new feathers. We'll be--the both of us--75 this year, and even though we've moved twice since we both retired and shed all kinds of stuff, we've got WAY TOO MUCH--way, way too much. Getting rid of things has become a way of life. Once upon a time, it hurt. No more. If our son wanted the barrier's shelves--our gorgeous old library bookcase--or our daughter wanted the rolltop desk sometime this week, we'd find a way to do without.
Act five. Whether either of our kids ever bore a hankerin' for an honest-to-goodness buffalo hide, I don't know. I didn't ask because a month ago or so I came up with an idea that means near redemption for this massive old chunk of furriness: give the hide to the museum.
I brought it up and the powers-that-be looked smilingly on the idea. It'll soon be mounted on a long saw horse-y thing and set out in front of some of the beading and ancient tools in the Native section, set out there for kids to touch when they visit. Honestly, it's a thrill to lose your hands in it--the fur is that thick and uneven. "Go on and touch it," we'll say when kids come in.
So I brought it in. That's the picture up there on top. It's no longer rolled up the book case because it's found itself a loving home where it'll be safe from a cat's foul sacrilege and greatly, greatly indulged by willing hands.
Now that's a wonderful story, almost Christmas-y. And that's why this morning, I'm thankful for the museum.
Are the Schaaps bereft? Not to worry. There's this guy on the wall.
And this one, well-preserved, behind me.
And this new calendar I made for 2023. We're going to make it, I think.
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