by Jim Whitehouse
“I need to send an antique teapot to my sister,” says Lyle Pratt, setting his coffee cup on the table next to his dirty breakfast plate.
“Why?” I say, handing my own breakfast plate to Matilda, our waitress. “Doesn’t she have her own teapot?”
“It was our grandmother’s. It’s just been in a cabinet in my house, so my sister says she wants to display it in her house.”
“Thank you, Matilda,” I say to Matilda, who is scooping up the rest of our dishes, except for the coffee cups.
“You’re welcome. And my name is Sally, not Matilda,” she says.
“Right,” says Lyle. “We’ve been calling you Matilda for years and we’re not going to stop now.”
“Then you’ll need to leave me a bigger tip,” says Matilda, whose name is not Sally and never has been. She smiles and heads for the kitchen.
“I’ve got a box for the teapot, but I’m wondering what to put in there so it doesn’t break,” says Lyle.
“Excelsior,” I say.
“Yes, it is an excellent teapot, and I want to keep it that way. So what should I use to protect it?”
“EXCELSIOR!” I say.
“You’re not helping by shouting in Latin or whatever that is,” says Lyle.
“Excelsior is what they used to pack stuff in back in the old days. It’s wood shavings, but not sawdust,” I say. “I also remember getting boxes stuffed with popcorn.”
“Popcorn?” says Lyle. “That might work, but the salt and butter might ruin the teapot.”
“Leave out the salt and butter when you pop it,” I say.
“Why in the world would anyone ever make popcorn without salt and butter,” says Lyle, drooling a bit.
“Good point,” I say. “You could use wadded up paper towels or newspapers.”
“Or those foam things—I think they call them peanuts,” says Lyle.
“The bubble wrap stuff is good, and it’s fun to pop it, but I always wonder where that air came from. It might be from some really polluted place,” I say.
“You’re supposed to pop the bubbles by stomping on them, not biting them,” says Lyle, always watching out for my health.
“Lots of choices,” I say. “You should be able to come up with something to protect your grandmother’s teapot.”
“She didn’t even drink tea. I think my grandmother inherited the teapot from her grandmother. Come to think of it, I think teapots are mostly used for decorations, not for tea,” says Lyle.
“Another good point,” I say. “I suppose your great, great grandmother just heated the water in a cup in her microwave like everyone else.”
“Probably. Those wood-fired microwave ovens were terrific,” says Lyle.
“I received a package yesterday. It was a couple of ball point pen refills I had ordered online. The box was as big as a shoe box and filled with chunks of foam. It took me a while to even find out what was in there under all that plastic,” I say.
“Wasteful,” mutters Lyle, as he signals Matilda, who comes right over.
“Yes?”
“Could I please have a cup of tea?” says Lyle.
“No,” she says. “Not unless you start calling me Sally and leave me bigger tips.”
Lyle hands her a dime. “Please, Sally. Tea.”
“Me too,” I say. “Sally.”
Matilda takes our coffee cups and soon comes back with two cups of hot water, tea bags dangling within.
Lyle lifts his cup in a toast to her. “Excelsior, Sally. Excelsior.”
“Popcorn, Sally. Popcorn,” I say.
She smiles at our foolishness as she walks away. “BIG tip,” she says. “HUGE!”
As always, we comply. She deserves it.
