One man's treasure...

A glazed ceramic cornucopia. Much to my mother's dismay, this was my dad's prized possession. He brought it back from the Caribbean and displayed it proudly in the "library" of their Florida home, as though it were an original Remington.

This might have been the end of the story, except that cold New England nights had saddled my dad with seven kids. Four wicked, scheming, twisted daughters, and three fine sons. Trust me, that cornucopia had it coming the day it arrived.

It started innocently enough. Some of the daughters, on a visit, decided the cornucopia would look good in the bird bath, which my dad cleaned faithfully each morning. Ultimately, it was his reaction that got things going - he was pissed. Let the games begin.

Over the years, the cornucopia managed to find its way onto the toilet, onto the roof, into the car, over to the neighbor's, into the clothes dryer, just to name a few places. On each visit, the previous prank would have to be outdone, and on each visit, it was. I'm not sure if my dad's reaction was intended to stop the pranks, or to keep them going. At any rate, whatever the intention, it certainly kept them going.

When my dad passed in 1992, the daughters claimed the cornucopia as a symbol of their torment - er, his memory. Since then, it has passed from one to the other, as a sort of gift. Each time a sister visits another, the cornucopia is snuck into the host house, and stowed in an inconspicuous place, to be discovered at some later time. The last person to have it was Barbara.

This weekend I drove to Boston to attend a memorial hike for Barbara, and to help clean out her apartment. She had recently purchased a new washer and dryer, and I had loaded them into my truck to take back home with me - a very difficult thing to do, but that's another blog, entirely.

When I arrived home and unloaded the washer and dryer, I found the cornucopia inside the dryer. Touché, sisters. Let the games begin.