So, it is going to be Spring this weekend and we are going to get snow. Go figure.

I am so over all this winter stuff. But Friday was a nice enough day, from what I saw of it out the window of my home office as email flew around all afternoon in a rising crescendo, banishing the lingering concussive effects of the depth-charging and car-bombing that had gone on during the observation of the day devoted to all things Irish.

I was ready for a little something at Happy Hour at The Front Page, and wondered what the crowd was going to be like the day after a major social holiday. With the entire law enforcement overtime budget spent for the month, I thought it was worth driving over, and did so with alacrity in the official-looking P71 Police Interceptor.

The Front Page was pretty lively with the men’s NCAA round-ball madness on the screens, and I got the bad news about one of my two favorite brackets almost immediately from Keith, who was camped out at the truncated apex of the bar where the regulars congregate.

Keith is an interesting guy. He is a Master Mount Maker at the Smithsonian Institutions National Museum of African Art. Now, we had to ask him what the hell that meant when he first walked in, almost as soon as we decided whether he was going to be “K3” to complement “K1” and “K2,” which is a problematic issue with us.

The current one and two positions are in a state of flux. Both are Kevins, and Kevin One had been in a relationship with Joy, which ended. We don’t know why and it is none of our business, so he is out of the picture. So, technically, K2 could be advanced in the rankings, and if Keith was suddenly in the mix, he might be rationally called K2, which would cause no end of confusion.

In the end, we agreed he might just as well be “Keith,” since he was no Kevin and never expressed a desire to be one while any of us were around. Anyway, when asked what exactly it is that mount-makers do, he responded that “If any artifact looks like it is going to fall over, they call me, and I keep it upright.”

I wasn’t going to take the bait on something so easy to slide into the gutter, so I just grunted in acknowledgment. We learned a lot more in his next few visits about some of the very cool things he had worked with over his two decades at the Museum, working directly with what are, in some cases, priceless objects of art.

So after letting me know that most of the brackets in America were busted, he said he had something to show me.

“I never buy stuff at the Museum store, but I always like to look at what comes in. Today, I made a purchase.” H reached down below the bar and produced a fancy paper bag with the little twine handles, and reached into it to bring out a remarkable object: a small dark stool carved from a single block of adamant ironwood into a concave circular seat with three sturdy legs.

“Good God,” I said. “It is the Golden Stool of the Ashanti Union!” Mom would haave been pleased to know that my college days were not simply a haze of smoke and beer.

Laura the bartender looked up at my outburst from the well where she was mixing Jon-without his very first drink of the afternoon with a puzzled look.

“The Ashanti are a major ethnic group in Ghana,” I said. “In the pre-colonial days they had a large and influential empire in West Africa. The Union was founded in the 1670s by Osei Tutu, the head of the Oyoko clan. He turned a loose confederation of small-city states into an empire.”

Keith nodded gravely as I turned the stool over in my hands. “The legend of the Golden Stool- the Sika ‘dwa- was called down from the heavens by Okomfo Anokye, the High Priest under the first Ashanti King, Osei Tutu. The Ashanti believe it contains the spirit or soul of their people. Not even the King is permitted to sit on it.”

“Someone clearly sat on this one a lot,” I said. “This is very cool,” I said. “I have never seen one in person.” I slid it down the bar so Jon-without could examine the craftsmanship.

“It is actually from Kenya, but that is pretty close. I saw it coming out of the crate, and I could tell it was no modern reproduction. Look at the water discoloration on the legs, and deep wax coating on the seat itself. I took it up to one of the curators, and she confirmed that it is an actual antique. It was $40 in the gift shop, but I get an employee discount, so I got it for $32.” He smiled in triumph.

“That is a bargain for a top quality Kenyan stool,” marveled Jon-without.

“And look at the applications,” I said, putting my drink in the middle of the seat.

“There is a lot of symbolism associated with that,” said Keith.

“Sir Frederick Hodgson was the British ruler of the Gold Coast in 1900. He demanded to sit on the stool in the heyday of the Empire. The Ashanti remained silent and then went home to prepare for war. They lost to the Brits, of course, but no one screwed with the stool again.”

I removed my drink in respect. Then we talked about some other stuff, I can’t recall what. Maryland was kicking the crap out of some team from Dakota, and by the time we got to the end of Happy Hour prices, we were ready to go. Keith put his treasure back in the bag and headed for the Metro, and I started to walk back up the block to the Police cruiser.

“Drive as rapidly as possible,” said Jon-without.

“I know, I know. I want to minimize my exposure to law enforcement,” I responded crisply. Jon knows that I actually drive as cautiously as an old coot in Florida, which I am, except that I am not in Florida yet.

“And don’t take any wooden stools,” he said, adjusting his bow tie, and strode back up the block toward his building.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com