One Last Basket

My dad was a dreamer.  He saw himself as a prince, not a pauper.  He wanted to make a big mark on the world and hoped to make a ton of money along the way.  He had a lot of what it takes to turn a buck.  He was charming, creative of mind, quick-witted and well-spoken.  He could sell and was willing to take risks.

He always had a job, but he never wanted a job.  Basically, he wanted to strike it rich.  His schemes were numerous, wacky and wonderful, and it was fun to dream with him. 

For years he worked for a family with extensive citrus holdings in Arizona and Southern California.  Because he was whip smart and fluent in Spanish, he supervised the braceros who worked the groves, and he also managed the packing house operations.  Every day they sorted, crated, and loaded the fruit onto the railroad cars that were pulled into the siding right next to the packing house.  Seeing those oranges and lemons and grapefruit rolling off to chillier climes, Ted dreamed his most promising enterprise of all.

His idea was to package some fruits and nuts from sunny SoCal and ship them to folks in Minnesota as Christmas presents?  He talked to growers and shippers, got a line of credit, and opened an office within a block of the packing house.  He hired some legal work, printed up business cards, and became Ted Piatt: President, Fiesta Fruits, Inc.  Dang, it was exciting.

He had a big need for packaging, and he had a big idea for that.  He could save a ton of money and have a more realistic appearance for his Southwest-themed business by purchasing the baskets in Mexico.  Plus, he loved all things Mexican – the food, the music, the language, the people.  So, he did some homework on basket-makers near Tijuana and took a buying trip south of the border. 

He returned with about 100 baskets of various shapes and sizes.  Each basket had green and orange ribbons that were woven into the straw of the basket itself. It gave them a distinctive look, like a logo. My mother Audrey began to create gift baskets for promotional purposes, which created some real enthusiasm.  Dad was sure that this dream was not going to be elusive, like so many others. 

At about the same time, someone had a similar business idea; they called it Mission Pak.  I can still remember the words and hear in my head the advertising jingle from their TV ads:

            Say the magic word, say Mission Pak, and we’re on our merry way!

            No gift so right, so gay, so bright, it’s the Mission Pak magic way!

If you are wondering what Mission Pak was like, or what Ted envisioned Fiesta Fruits to look like, think “Harry and David.”  You know, terrifically overpriced fruits, nuts, and candies, right to your doorstep.  Yum-Yum and Cha-Ching!

However, somewhere between the creative urge and the final big payday for any dreamer, there is a land mine of hard work, entrepreneurial drive, personal and fiscal self-discipline, and of course, sobriety.  Just when it seemed within reach, Ted went to Mexico again for a bigger order of baskets, and they only took cash. 

Ted withdrew a wad of money and rented a big trailer, but on the way, he got distracted.  No one ever knew if he stopped in Del Mar, or if he made it across the border into Tijuana, to find a racetrack, his preferred gambling venue.  Or maybe he put down some of the advertising dollars on high hopes for an inside straight at a casino, or perhaps some of the line of credit ended up at the sports book where he took the Rams by seven over the Bears. 

Ted had been planning to return within thirty-six hours; but by the third day, Audrey and friends were a little jumpy.  After a week, things were falling apart in the offices of Fiesta Fruits.  The plan was to buy 600 baskets; but when he got to the factory, he only had enough money for 60.  By the time he got home with his tail between his legs; the bank, the backers, the buyers, and the suppliers were jumping ship. 

This dream did prove elusive, and the disappointment was not about the riches we would never see.  It was about my dad’s self-incrimination and shame, because he had thrown away his best idea and his best chance.  Yet Ted was not down and out for long.  Before he had much time to ruminate on the one that got away, he was already chasing another dream.

My parents even had something to laugh about — they had all those baskets.  For years they were good as Birthday and Christmas presents, as centerpieces and waste baskets, as attractive storage containers with a Mexican flair.

Finally, there was just one basket left.  It was round, about 12 inches in diameter, and maybe 14 inches tall.  It narrowed near the top and had a curved woven handle across the opening.  My mom used it to store the scraps of material that she was saving to create a braided rug. 

After she began to weave the scraps together to form the braid, she worked steadily for a while until the rug took its shape.  When it grew to about six feet long and four feet wide, she put it down in the living room near the front door.  As she collected more pieces of cloth, her project grew and became a rug of many colors.

Whenever she ran out of scraps, the work stopped for a while, but the braid did not end.  She never cut off the braid.  She never sewed the last two or three feet of the braid into the rug.  It snaked back into the basket, awaiting more cloth and more color.

After my dad died, she finally stopped working on it.  It had become this gorgeous six-by-nine-foot oval work of art, with a tail that disappeared into a woven straw basket with green and orange stripes.    

Once I asked her why she never finished the rug, and why she kept it leashed to its basket, right there by the front door.  It was simple.  She left the rug unfinished because she did not want to get rid of that one last basket.  Whenever she walked across the rug, going in or going out, she paused briefly.  The rug was a beautiful but unfinished metaphor for their incomplete hopes, and the basket reminded her of the things she absolutely loved about her dreamer of a husband.