 
Letters From My Time-Traveling Uncle

by

Roman Cardinal

Copyright 2012 Roman Cardinal

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the Publisher. That's a reasonable request, isn't it?

The content of this book is of a historical, educational, and newsworthy nature, and is made available in the name of the public interest. There is a chance there are secret codes hidden in the text. If you can figure any of them out, please let us know. However, this book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Hey, look, a lot of work went into putting this together. Thank you for respecting all of the incredibly hard work and time that went into it.

"Dedicated to my known, my unknown one."

\- Roman Cardinal

"Can I be as I believe myself or as others believe me to be? Here is where these lines become a confession in the presence of my unknown and in unknowable me, unknown and unknowable to myself. here is where I create the legend wherein I must bury myself."

\- Miguel De Unamuno

* * *

Dear reader.

As many of you know, my cousins and I have published a great variety of books since starting Campfire Publishing. Alternative contemporary fictional always appealed to us, but we were also attracted to historical fiction, biographies, poems, short stories, children's books, and a wide-variety of non-fiction.

6 months ago my best friend since college suddenly vanished. Val was investigating the mysterious disappearance of her father and her Uncle Reese. Interestingly, her grandfather mysteriously disappeared before Val was born. She once told me that there was no real investigation into her grandfather's disappearance. He was always traveling to Africa and South America and Asia and he would disappear for months and months at a time. There were reports that the ship he was on sank on its way to the Kerguelen Islands.

When her father and Uncle Reese disappeared it was not the sort of thing to report to authorities right away. The family (namely his brother and sister-in-law) figured they could resolve the matter quickly and easily. Well, clearly they did not.

Last month Val sent me a series of emails concerning her investigation into her Uncle's disappearance. She and I spoke a few times, too. Finally, she asked me to meet her so she could show me what she found and get my advice. I went to meet her but she was not there. All communications from her stopped. She did not reply to any of my emails, texts, or messages. Days later my assistant called and told me that a large package from her was waiting for me back at my office. I returned and found letters, journals, scrapbooks, stacks of sketches, and more. There was a short note to me that said not to bother contacting the police or F.B.I. or any other areas of law enforcement. She said they did not believe her and they would likely not believe me. She asked me to publish what she sent me. She said that others were going to be delivered in sporadic intervals, and she asked that I publish those, too. She said she had confidence that some of the readers could decipher what was going on and that someone will figure out how to bring everyone home.

I agreed to follow her request. For the sake of simplicity and expediency, I am simply going to call this "book" by the name of Letters From My Time-Traveling Uncle. You'll see why when you read them. To establish the foundation of how they were created I am first going to publish the items I found in an envelope with Val's initial letter.

Kindly let me know if you figure out any of the hidden ciphers and clues. I need to help my friend out. She needs me. She needs us.

Regards,

Roman Cardinal

Storyology Consultant and Editor

Campfire Publishing

* * *
\---------- Forwarded message ----------  
From: Val <Val@RockabyeBox.com>  
Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 8:59 PM  
Subject: Uncle Reese  
To: Dad <AlvTermeti@RockabyeBox.com>

Dad,

I got in to this town late last night. Even though I was exhausted and did not know my way around and just wanted to go to the hotel and sleep I thought I would walk over to the store and check it out. It was at the address you told me, but did not seem like the best place for a memorabilia store. I can see that the rents were probably much more affordable when grandpa ran it, but the neighborhood is very appealing nowadays. The monthly rent must be through the roof. I looked in the windows. It was dark. I could not see in too far. The window displays looked nice. Lots of vintage toys and other collectibles.

I went to the front door and was filed with dread when I saw the electronic lock. I hoped the list of codes you gave me would work. The first 2 codes did not, but the third one did. It is a clever code. Buddy Holly's birthday. Backwards. As soon as I got in I changed the code as you suggested. It is the one we agreed upon.

The store is packed with inventory. That caught me off guard. It seemed to be an organizational disaster. The vintage toys, albums, posters, and other memorabilia were on shelves, hanging from hooks, leaning against partitions, in cases and cabinets, hanging from the ceiling, and so on. I assume this is the way grandpa had it, and probably how customers like it, so they can feel like they "found" a treasure, and so on. Well, they would be right. In a way, I can see how it can be "comfortable" for people to browse around in. Clearly a storefront memorabilia shop is run a lot differently than our auction house.

After a few minutes I thought I heard someone walking on the other side of a door behind the counter. I wasn't sure if I should check it out of not. While I looked in that direction I thought I heard the front door of the shop open. I turned but no one was there. I figured I was tired and I better head back to the hotel and get some rest. I drove 14 hours yesterday. I was exhausted.

I got a wake-up call for 7:00 a.m. and got ready. It is 9:00 a.m. right now and I am heading over to the store.

I'll email you later.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Val <Val@RockabyeBox.com>

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 10:22 AM

Subject: Uncle Reese

To: Dad <AlvTermeti@RockabyeBox.com>

Dad.

I'm at the store now. Someone knocked on the door of my hotel room earlier. It was a tall man with gray eyes, in a gray suit, wearing a gray hat. He must like gray. He asked me if Teal was in. I told him he had the wrong room. He asked me again. I told him he made a mistake and I slowly shut the door. I did not move right away. I got the feeling that he was still on the other side of the door. I could hear him breathing. I looked out the peephole but he was not there. Still, I heard him breathing. I made sure the door was locked and called hotel security. They were at my door a few minutes later. They said no one was there. I asked them to please walk me downstairs. I told the manager what happened and he took note of it with security. Then I left and headed over to the store.

When I got here it was just as I had left it last night. As much as I can tell anyway. There were two large handprints on the door's glass. Probably someone walking bye checking out the inventory. There was an OPEN/CLOSED door with business hours on the door but I thought I should write one up and be more specific, to discourage people from coming by. I found some paper and a marker and I wrote. ON VACATION. BE BACK NEXT WEEK. I taped it to the door and then made sure the door was locked. I did not turn the lights on. I just started looking around.

The next 20 minutes were spent looking around, acclimating myself to the surroundings, turning a few things over here and there. You can imagine. Then I went behind the counter. The cash register was open. There was $42.45 in it. At first I was wondering why there was money there, with the drawer open, and then I remembered Grandpa once telling me that he always kept some money in the cash register and the drawer open in case burglars broke in. He figured they would just take the cash and leave quickly. He figured if he did not do that then a burglar will just break a $500 cash register just to get the drawer open and see if there was some cash in there. Makes sense. Better that they take some money and leave then destroy an expensive register and maybe other things, too. I probably would have paid more attention to Grandpa's wisdom if he didn't always have that cigar burning two inches from my face, or dropping ashes on my arm.

I tried to open the door behind me but it was locked. I looked around for a key but I did not see one. I then saw a flashing light on the wall. I pushed an ornate box aside and I saw a keypad. Ah! Another digital keypad to open the door. I tried the codes you gave me for the front door but none of them worked. Not even Buddy Holly's birthday – forwards or backwards. I gave up and started looking around some more.

That's what I am doing now.

More later.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

SENT FROM MY PHONE
* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Val <Val@RockabyeBox.com>

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 11:11 AM

Subject: Uncle Reese

To: Dad <AlvTermeti@RockabyeBox.com>

Dad.

I went through the list of codes you gave me and one of them opened the back door behind the register. I was about to enter but there was a knock on the front door. Since the lights were off and I am in the shadows, I did not bother to answer it.

I have some questions. I just called and left you a message since you did not answer. I called mom and she did not answer. I called the office and Riley said you two left to try to find Uncle Reese. He said you had an idea of where he might be. He told me that you said you'd be back in a few days. How come you did not tell me? What's going on?

Someone is knocking at the front door again. What should I do?

More later.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

SENT FROM MY PHONE
* * *

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 1:11 PM

Subject: Uncle Reese

To: Dad <AlvTermeti@ RockabyeBox.com >

Dad.

I opened the door behind the register and it led to a dark hallway. I felt along the wall for a light switch but there wasn't one. I pushed the door all the way open in order to get in some of the light from the street coming in through the glass windows. I took a step into the hallway and a light went on overhead. There was a motion sensor that triggered it. I quickly closed the door behind me so no one walking by would see me in the store.

The hallway was about 20 feet in length. On the other side was another door. Probably for deliveries, I assumed. There was no door handle on the door however. There was 1 door on each side of the hallway. Again, no door handles. But there were keypads.

I walked forward and then stopped and looked behind me at the door I came through. It closed. There was no doorknob. On the wall was a keypad. I did not think any of this was unusual, of course. After all, we have tight security, too. Despite this store being "untidy" to put it mildly, I did notice quite a number of quality items that could fetch a pretty penny.

I stopped at the door to my right and entered one of the codes on the list. After 4 tries I found one that worked. The door opened. I turned to go back to the store to grab my laptop. I entered the same code I used to get in, and that worked. I grabbed my laptop and went back into the hallway as the door again closed behind me. I again approached the door on the right hand side and entered the keyboard code again since the door closed while I was gone. I cautiously looked around. It was dark. I felt along the wall for a light switch. I know you know what happened next. I took a step inside and the lights went on.

I was surprised to see that the office was meticulous. It had a beautiful cherry pine desk about 5-6 feet from the wall. On one side of the room was a valuable collection of Hollywood and Broadway memorabilia. A lot of it was signed. Wasn't he supposed to send you items like that to auction? On the other side of the room was filled with vintage items associated with music. There were instruments from 19th and early 20th century. There were numerous autographed guitars. Once again, wasn't he supposed to send that to you? Did you know about all this?

Behind his desk, along the whole wall were photographs of musicians on and off stage. A lot of backstage photos of Big Joe Turner, Muddy Waters, Bo Diddley, Fats Domino, Bill Haley, Chuck Berry, Elvis, Carl Perkins, Buddy Holly (of course!), Everly Brothers, and many more from the 50's. Then pictures of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and many more from the 1960's. Then I saw pictures of The Eagles, Kiss, Meat Loaf & Jim Steinman, Diana Ross, Nicolette Larson, Edgar Winters, and others from the 1970's. I then turned around and glanced at the wall across from his desk. There were a great deal of backstage and other casual photos of musicians who had successful careers during the 1980's and 1990's. I turned back to Uncle Reese's desk and began to look around.

The desk was clear of paperwork. There was a ceramic mug that said ROCKABYE SHOPPE that seemed to be used for coffee or tea. There were other mugs on the desk, but they were filled with unique pencils and pens. There were some small vintage toys that he used either for decorative purposes or as paperweights. There was a little hand-made "car" that was shaped like a shark. It had nails for teeth. It seemed out of place. Perhaps it was a personal item. I sat down in the chair and closed my eyes for a moment. I then opened them and swung around and found myself looking at the framed photographs on his wall. I wasn't sure whether or not to be impressed that he had so many unique photos of all those musicians. It was interesting to see them casually talking to fans backstage, and their managers, and whoever was around. I have seen countless photos of all those people, but and I never saw those particular ones in any biographies, retrospectives, etc. over the course of my research.

Then something caught my eye. For a second I thought I saw you in one of the photographs. That is, it was someone who looked like it could be you, if you had longer hair, were a bit thinner, and with a casual posture. I looked closer. Nope. It definitely wasn't you. Though there was a resemblance, there was something that really set you two apart. That guy was smiling.

I then figured it was Grandpa. He did have some stories about knowing a lot of the people in the entertainment industry. That's how he started the store, right? I could not get over the resemblance. If it was Grandpa then that was the first time I saw photos of him with hair

What threw me next was that the man looked the same, unchanged, in essentially every way, whether he was standing next to Elvis in 1955, and when he was standing next to Janis Joplin in 1968, and when he was backstage with Fleetwood Mac in 1977, and when he was standing next to Michael Jackson in 1986, and when he was standing next to David Bowie in 1995, and when he was hanging out with Belle and Sebastian in 2003, and when was chatting with Katy Perry in 2012.

I looked at more and more photos and got more and more confused. I then saw a bookshelf along the wall and saw a series of photo albums. One said The Beatles. Of course I grabbed that one first. I opened it and it there were photographs of the same man standing next to personal photographs with Paul McCartney in 1959, 1969, 1979, 1989, 1999, and 2009. But he looked the same in every single photograph! I turned the page and there were photographs with him and John Lennon in 1960, 1965, 1970, 1975, and 1980. How could John Lennon go from 20, to 25, to 30, to 35, to 40 and the man next to him did not change at all? How come Paul and John don't look freaked out about it?

Photoshop, right? Well, it would have taken forever to do all of these! Not only to put the same man in each photo, but to alter everyone's postures, create different backgrounds, and more than I want to even get into.

Botox? Cosmetic surgery?

I looked at the bookshelf and noticed that Uncle Reese had dozens of photo albums. I then saw a framed photograph of you and that man taken at your house. I have not seen Uncle Reese in 10 years, since I was a teenager, but that photo was of you and him. How on earth is this possible?

I am calling you right now.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.
* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 2:34 PM

Subject: Uncle Reese

To: Dad <AlvTermeti@ RockabyeBox.com >

Dad.

After my last email I went through more and more photo albums and kept seeing Uncle Reese in all of them. All over the world. Concerts here. Parties there. 1950's. 1960's. 1970's. 1980's. 1990's. He appeared to be FRIENDS with hundreds of famous people and yet no one seems surprised that the man always looked the same.

I put back all the photo albums and started looking around some more. I got so frustrated at one point that I sat in his chair and spun around on the swivel, just to get my mind off of what was going on. I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. It was painted like a blue sky, with fluffy white clouds scattered about. I then looked down and saw that his entire floor was yellow pine. It was clean, but there was no wax on it. No one had been in there to wax that floor in a long, long time, if ever. Under my feet was an ornate rug. It covered the entire floor beneath the desk and extended an additional 3 feet outward in each direction. I looked beneath my feet. My shoes were on the rug. I pushed back so the chair would roll on its wheels until the chair was off of the rug and on the wood, with the back of the chair almost touching the wall. I kicked up the carpet in front of me and I saw that the wood was cut differently. I stood up and kicked the rug toward the desk. Yes. There was a secret door underneath. There was no knob. There was no keypad. There was nothing high tech or low tech. There was a handle made out of rope. I put my finger around it but then pulled my hand away. It made no sense. Considering all the keypads to get into this room, why would this be so easily accessible? And then I thought what on earth could he possibly keep on the other side of this door that could possibly be of more value than the vintage items in the store, and around me, or more priceless than the photos and photo albums in his office?

I thought about it for a brief moment and then put my fingers around the rope and lifted as the door came up.

There was no gunfire, poison darts, or rolling boulder to crush me. There were no explosions. There was nothing. No drama. I was almost disappointed. Seriously. I lifted the door all the way and saw a staircase. As I took the first step to descend a motion sensor was activated and lights lit up as I walked down. There were 12 stairs till I got to the bottom. I was in a basement. There were no windows. The first things I noticed were rows of bookshelves along the walls. In the middle of the room there were tables neatly arranged. There were jars and containers and boxes on them. They were filled with different types of glues, rubber cement, tapes, scissors, rulers, and other craft supplies. There were stacks of newspapers and magazines. I glanced at them. Many were 30-40 years old. There were two electronic shredding machines on the floor. They shredded vertically and horizontally and essentially created confetti out of whatever was put in them.

I walked over to one of the bookshelves to see what was on them. There were dozens upon dozens of thick scrapbooks. I looked around and saw a stereo on a stand. Next to them were bookshelves filled with vinyl albums. There were plenty of contemporary albums such as Thriller, The Dark Side of the Moon, Back in Black, Bat Out of Hell, albums from the Eagles and Led Zeppelin and Fleetwood. He had every single Beatles album, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Born in the U.S.A., lots of Queen albums, A half dozen Michael Jackson albums, Bridge Over Troubled Water, Madonna albums, Boston, Def Leppard albums, every Prince album, and I can go on and on. But then there were some rare, collectible albums from the 1920's, 1930's, 1940's, and 1950's, that were in immaculate condition. They looked brand new!

There was an album ready to play. I turned the stereo on and the album automatically dropped down and began to revolve. The arm swung in and then descended until the needle touched the vinyl. Seconds later I heard Buddy Holly's voice as he began to sing. I closed my eyes and listened to the whole song before moving on. It really is an emotional experience to hear a song the way people listened to it for decades, before CDs and MP3s came along.

As the next song began to play I approached the scrapbooks (there were dozens of them) and took one out and opened it up. There were some great photos in the one I opened, but mainly there were tickets and menus and pamphlets and postcards and letters that he had collected over the years. In between and around and on and behind them was text. It seemed to be more like a journal. I skimmed over the text at first and then started to pay attention to what I was reading. They were written in the present tense, as if he was actually there in the 1950's, and so on.

I looked through another journal, and then another, and another, and another. Each one seemed more and more amazing. It sure seems like Uncle Reese attended every single major music event since the 1920's.

Uncle Reese wrote these. I accept that now. I don't know how, but it is true. He was there when John Lennon met Paul McCartney. He was there when Elvis cut his audition tape at Sun Records. He was there when Meat Loaf met Jim Steinman. He was there when Madonna shot her first music video. He was everywhere! How? Why? And now he has disappeared. I am going to see what I can figure out.

More later.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

\- Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.
* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 3:07 PM

Subject: Uncle Reese

To: Dad <AlvTermeti@ RockabyeBox.com >

Dad.

I found what I think is the last journal/scrapbook that Uncle Reese put together. When I pulled it out an envelope fell to the floor. It did not have any address on it, but there was a stamp on the corner. It was not sealed. I took it out of the envelope and read it. I am not sure if I should write any more emails to you. It might not be safe.

Call me.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

SENT FROM MY PHONE
* * *

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 7:22 PM

Subject: It's me. Val.

To: Roman <Roman@ RockabyeBox.com >

Roman.

I am going to call you in a little while to let you know what's going on. Everything has happened so fast since we spoke last week. I need your help. Even though we have been friends a long time, we always had that unspoken deal where we would not talk about our work or our families. We shared so many common interests in college that it made sense that we should not allow our friendship to be diluted with all of the dull or frustrating or unpleasant topics that most people end up falling into. I've always been perfectly happy talking to you about art and music and books, and I know you have felt the same way. Well, I am sorry to say that I need to break our "rule" because I need your help. You're the smartest guy I know.

My family is in the memorabilia business. We specialize in authentic and vintage posters, tickets, albums, instruments, cars, clothes, photographs, and other rare and valuable items associated with Broadway, Hollywood, Twentieth century music, and op culture memorabilia. You name it, and we've probably seen it and sold it. It's been a lot of fun. I've learned a lot. I feel fortunate that I have met so many interesting people.

During my entire life, my parents, brother, sister, and I have run an auction house and we deal with many elite customers. Some known. Some unknown.

My Uncle Reese is my dad's brother. He and my dad are business partners. My Uncle deals directly with customers off the street. Since before I was born, he has run my grandfather's memorabilia store called ROCKABYE SHOPPE. Like us, he deals with items associated with the history of music, Hollywood, Broadway, and other memorabilia associated with entertainment.

Whenever my Uncle Reese ever came across something of major historical significance, that was too pricey for his typical customers, he would pass it on to my parents who always had willing buyers waiting in the wings.

My family and I live in one city, and Uncle Reese lives in another. I have not seen him in about 10 years. He travels a lot. I always wished I could see him more. I always liked him. He always had such great stories to tell. He always made me laugh. Whenever I think of him I can see him smiling and laughing. What a theatrical guy! So animated! His eyes always lit up when he spoke - especially about music.

About a week ago my Uncle Reese disappeared. My parents did not call the police or the F.B.I. or anyone else. Instead they said they had an idea of where he might be and they left to search for him. They put my older brother and sister in charge of the Auctions and they asked me to go my Uncle's place and shut down ROCKABYE SHOPPE. They asked me to look around for any information that may pertain to his whereabouts.

I packed up. I made a hotel and car reservation. I left town. I went to my Uncle's place. That's when my parents disappeared.

I found some amazing journals and scrapbooks that my Uncle Reese kept over the course of his life. I don't want to sound crazy, but they read as if he had the ability to travel back in time where he was able to attend events, and meet people associated with music. Portions of the journals are filled with information that he seems to have had in his mind that he wanted to commit to paper. After and beyond that, the journals become more and more mysterious. For example, he talks about Buddy Holly as if he and was a close friend. Guess what? My Uncle was born long after Buddy Holly died.

Honestly, I was more and more confused as I read through one after another. I found dozens upon dozens. Interesting? Yes! Educational? Yes! But how and why did he write them the way he did? I could not wrap my mind around it all.

Until I found a letter he wrote to me. Yes, to me. It was as if he suspected he would disappear and I would be doing what I was told to do.

Uncle Reese revealed that he put secret codes, ciphers, clues, and puzzles in the text and images of his journals/scrapbooks. He told me that I was smart enough to figure them out and they would lead to the solution of how to bring him home.

You might ask why he didn't just reveal the info we needed right away instead of putting secret clues within text. I suppose he could not tell the answer straight out in fear that the wrong person or persons would find out where he is. This is quite a mystery.

I have not heard from my parents. No one has. I wish I knew what was going on. So here I am and here you are. I need your help. Can you please check it out and let e know if you or someone else you know can read through these and see if they can discover any secret codes, ciphers, riddles, or any other types of clues that my Uncle hid within the pages? If you do, please call me and email me and let me know. They can keep any "treasures" that they may find. That is fine with me. I just want my family back.

Remember me.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

\- Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

p.s. I scanned some of the items that I found in my Uncle's office. Please check them out. I am then going to send you copies of each journal as I gather the pages together and scan them. Please let me know if you find any clues.
* * *

Hi, Val.

Obviously I have no idea of knowing when you will read this letter. That is, I am not sure if you are reading this before or after looking through some (all?) of my journals.

Either way, I am sure you are quite confused, so I am writing this to explain what's going on and why you're here.

As you know, your grandfather started the ROCKABYE SHOPPE many years before we were born. He always wanted us to be involved with it and to appreciate all of his collections, share his knowledge, and introduce us to his interesting customers. I've always been drawn to artists, musicians, interesting characters, creative people, and so I spent as much time at the store as I could. I never had a lot of friends, but I liked to spend time reading and writing and sketching, so those things took up a lot of my days and nights. I always assumed there would be time to hang out with dad at the store.

Your father, on the other hand, was not interested in the store at all. He always had a low tolerance for unusual people and situations. He liked to play things safe in life. He liked to do things where he had a pretty good idea of what the outcome would be. He was never a risk taker, and he is the first to tell people that, so I am not talking behind his back. As you know, soon after he got out of college he married your mom and had children. He bought a home. He got a job. He always had stability. That is great. Society needs people like that.

After I graduated high school, I packed a bag and travelled around Europe.

Not too long after, your grandfather passed away. After doing the best we could to recuperate from the grief that descended upon us, we took on the task of deciding what to do with his business – the "Rockabye Shoppe." Since our mother passed away years before our father, we could not turn to her for guidance.

We had many options. Liquidating seemed like a good idea, but how does one liquidate an entire store filled with thousands of items? If anyone was interested in buying all of it, or most of it, how come they never showed up while my father was running it?

The fact of the matter is, people wandered in periodically, looked around, and some bought items here and there. As far as I know, no one ever backed up a truck to the front door and bought boxes and barrels of memorabilia. That's just not the type of business it was. At least that is not how our father chose to run it. He made plenty of money with the high-end items to allow him to coast for days, weeks, and months without big money coming in.

He liked when people wandered in off the street and looked around, though they had no intention of buying anything. He liked to watch their eyes light up when they saw something they had not seen since they were children. My father took pleasure in watching other people become joyful before his eyes. There aren't many people like that in the world, but he was one of them. It was not a conscious effort either. It was in his DNA. It was in every pore of his body.

My father usually never exhaled air silently. His exhalations were typically accompanied by a giggle as if he was remembering a funny incident. When I looked into his eyes I could see that he was not only living in the moment, but he was also reflecting back on a memory, a fine moment, something someone said, did, how they looked, something, something, something, that he clearly appreciated, for he always appreciated the little things in life and had a gift of instantly capturing that split second in someone's eyes or voice or in the movement of their head or hair or hand that brought them back in time, away from where they were, to a time when they were happy. It was wondrous to see.

I wish I spent more time with him. I wish I were more like him. I am not sure if I know how to spot that millisecond of joy that is reflected in someone's eyes, but I do know that there is something that has been instilled in my DNA, something that makes me different from many others, and I got that from my father - your grandfather. I don't know why I am the way I am but I seem to be the one who has the personality that seems to bring joy to other people. It is not a conscious effort. Maybe it is because I make myself laugh and I think most people take things way too seriously.

But back to where I left off. Your father and I did not know what to do with the store's inventory. We spent days going through paperwork, boxes, upstairs, downstairs, in drawers, in cases. It was overwhelming. Your father had quite a look on his face. He wanted to be anywhere but there. Part of it was a combination of utter boredom and frustration, but part of it was external influences as well. He was not thrilled with his career at the time. I think you know this. We have joked about his first career during family dinners when I used to come over many years ago. He was looking for a change. Another idea. Something to pursue to make the best use of his natural talent to interact with professionals in the way that people who wear suits and ties interact with one another.

Me? I know how to interact with people who have watercolor paint on their shirts, and whose fingers are burning from typing novels, and whose voices are hoarse from singing on a stage.

One morning someone walked into the Rockabye Shoppe and started calling out my father's name. Your dad and I stood up abruptly. We were startled. We were sure that we locked the door and turned the sign to say we were closed. When my eyes adjusted to the daylight coming in through the door I saw Mr. Teal Vetrim and a friend of his, whose name I do not remember. You never met Mr. Vetrim. He is not a friend of mine and I call him by his first name. He was a steady customer of my father's for as long as I could remember. He was one of the gentlemen who purchased the expensive collectible items that helped pay the bills to keep the store open during slow periods. He was always dressed impeccably well. I never knew what he did for a living but he clearly did well for himself. He was always so clean and proper. He certainly did look like someone who was interested in buying the vintage guitars, posters, sheet music, and albums that he always had his eyes on. While growing up I assumed that he was buying them from your grandfather at a fair price and then turning around and selling them to another buyer at a substantial mark-up. If so, I told myself, then that is fine. Fair is fair. As long as my dad got the price he asked, or an amount that was fairly negotiated, there was certainly no reason to get hot under the collar about it. Besides, like I mentioned, I always liked him. He and my father were good friends. They smiled and laughed together. That is a great memory to have. I am not sure if you ever saw your father smile or laugh. I certainly have not.

No need for me to get into the details at this time about Mr. Vetrim's reaction to the news about my father, but I will discuss that with you at a future time.

Once the usual pleasantries were exchanged it was clear that he was not making a social call. He quickly explained that his friend was in town from Prague and had been looking forward to meeting my father and purchasing several items at the shoppe. In fact, since he did not speak English he actually wandered off and was browsing, sometimes with his glasses on, sometimes with them off, as your father and I conversed with Mr. Vetrim. Periodically we would hear the strange man gasp from a dark corner, other times he would mumble at the rate of galloping horses. At least one time I saw his hands fly in the air as if he just called BINGO!

Unaware of our grief and the subject of the conversation we were having with Mr. Vetrim, his friend was having the time of his life. After 15 minutes he returned to us and began to point to several items hanging on the wall, and one in a glass case, and another on a bookshelf, and finally a large brown case that was on the floor. Mr. Vetrim nodded knowingly and turned to us.

"He is leaving town tomorrow. He would like to know if you would ship the items to his address in Prague," Mr. Vetrim told us.

Your father and I looked at each other. To fill the silence, Mr. Vetrim asked if we were going to run the store from then on. Once again my brother and I looked at each other. That idea had not even occurred to us. He said he understood what we were going through and he would take his friend and leave, since we were clearly busy. He apologized and said something to his friend and put his hand on his shoulder and motioned that they should go. At that instant Mr. Vetrim's friend sunk his left hand deep into his pocket and retrieved a wad of cash the size of two fists. He quickly counted out thousand dollar bills and held out 7 of them for your dad or I to take.

I looked up at Mr. Vetrim who seemed to be embarrassed. He said something to his friend and once again turned him to go. He apologized to us and said he was sorry to hear about out father, that he was a good friend, and that he would like to see us again, perhaps for coffee, away from the store, to share memories about our father.

Mr. Vetrim's friend then took my hand and put the $7,000 in it. He pulled his hand away quickly and handed me his business card. He then turned to Mr. Vetrim and spoke for a moment. Once done Mr. Vetrim turned to your dad and I and said that his friend would really like those items and he will send him a check for another $7,000 when the items arrive.

$14,000. I turned and looked at the items he wanted. I just didn't get it. I looked at your father who was already nodding to Mr. Vetrim. We told him that the items would be shipped in the morning.

The man must have understood because he smiled wide and quickly glanced at the items he had purchased. He had joy written all over his face, but for a split second I saw something more. I can't explain. There was something in his eyes. Something in the way he slightly moved his lips up, something in the way his cheeks moved when he let out a slight laugh, that told me he was lost in a memory. There was something about the items he bought. They were worth $14,000 for him. Perhaps even worth more. For that price he was able to travel back in time and relive a moment of pure happiness. That is what your grandfather saw. That is what I saw. That is why we opened the door in the morning and turned the lights on and waited for people to come in.

Uncle Reese.

Who Knows Where The Time Goes? Please read the next letter. It is hidden in this room. Here is another clue that I am sure you can easily solve. Sprinkle a little gold dust and we shall  rendezvous) somewhere sandy.

* * *

Val,

After Mr. Vetrim and his friend left, your father and I went out to lunch.

"There is money to be made in this business," your father told me. He seemed sure of it. He was running the numbers through his head. He then told me that the store had 'too much junk' and that stuff had to go. He said we would just concentrate on the good stuff, the big stuff, the important stuff; the stuff people would whip out thousands of dollars for! Sure, we didn't know too much about the business, but we had a foundation, we had a reputation, we had our wits and our interest, and even some connections! Yes! That is what we'd do! Your father had it all mapped out. He was excited. I never saw such excitement from him. Dollar signs beamed from his eyes.

That's when I chimed in. His suggestions were fine. Sounded jake. I was all for it. But as a separate entity. If he wanted to focus on the high-ticket items and deal with the people that he wanted to deal with, then it was fine with me to ignite the engines. But the Rockabye Shoppe mattered, too. Our father put a lot of time and effort (and yes, love!) into acquiring the inventory he did. He liked selling the $5 and $20 items. I suggested that we continue in the tradition that our father had started, but we could clean the place up and display the high-end items better, and appeal to collectors.

Your father shook his head. He had no interest in the store. We did not argue about it. We grew up together. We understood each other. We made a deal. We'd keep the Rockabye Shoppe. I fit right in with the crowd who wanted to talk and look at vintage albums, books, items, and instruments. I fit in with the people with stories to share. I liked to hear people's interesting stories. While growing up I always wished I had interesting stories to share.

Your father then asked me for the $7,000 and said he would open a bank account for us to use to start building an inventory of quality, vintage items. He the got agitated and said we may have sold the items for too little.

"A deal is a deal," I said.

"But maybe someone else would have paid $15,000. Maybe $20,000. Maybe $50,000!" Your father's voice was rising in higher measures. Then he asked, "What were those items anyway? Did we get scammed? Was that guy going to go back to Prague and sell the items for $100,000 to some wealthy industrialist? Were we scammed?" Your father demanded to know. He was getting hot under the collar.

I tried to reassure him when I said, "I am sure everything was on the up and up." Mr. Vetrim would not let someone take advantage of us."

Your father's eyes lit up. "Maybe Mr. Vetrim helped dupe us. Maybe he was part of the con job. They work that way, don't you know. They work that way. Mr. Vetrim was there to gain our confidence. We knew him. We trusted him."

"I am sure it is fine," I said, slightly exasperated.

Your father shook his head back and forth. "Don't you think it is rather suspicious that Mr. Vetrim showed up when he did? After all, if he and dad were such good friends, how come he didn't know about his death? It was one month ago! What kind of friendship did they have if he didn't even know?"

Your father's eyes were burning. He looked directly at me and said, "I bet those guys are going to sell those items in Prague and split the profits! They are laughing at us right now!"

I leaned back. I did not believe a word of it. Your father was going off the deep end. You know how he can be sometimes. I told him to relax. I reminded him of the ledger behind the counter that our father kept. It listed the inventory, along with how much he paid for the items, and how much to sell items for.

We did not finish our lunch. Your father was in too much of a huff. He marched back to the store. He went straight to the ledger. It took a few moments to find the items. We added up the amounts. Your father had the ability to add it up in his head. I used a pencil and paper and them double-checked with a calculator. The deal was sealed. The man knew what he was buying. He knew what it was all worth. He paid the fair market price, along with an extra $500 to cover shipping and handling. It was on the level.

Your father smacked his hand down on the ledger after he closed it and said, "That Mr. Vetrim is a good guys. He'll really help get us some high bidders. It's great that we know him."

And that is how the Rockabye Auctions began. Your father runs it. I run the store – the Rockabye Shoppe. Business has been great.

Please find the next letter. You are such an Angel. I know that you have that magic touch.

\- Uncle Reese
* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 5:25 PM

Subject: Val

To: Roman <Roman@ RockabyeBox.com >

Please call me when you get a chance.

V

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

SENT FROM MY PHONE

* * *

Val,

Five years ago Mr. Vetrim invited your father and me to dinner in New York City. He asked us to come alone. No girlfriends. No wives. No kids. No one.

Considering how much he helped us, we were happy to meet with him at the time and place of his choosing. We flew to New York and checked into our hotel. We took showers, got dressed up, and walked to the restaurant where he told us to meet him at. Once we were ready to go in a man appeared from the shadows and called out our names. He said Mr. Vetrim has changed venues. The man said he would take us there. He motioned to a limousine and opened the door. We got in and were driven through Central Park and then the limousine stopped in front of the Dakota on the Upper West Side. We tried our best to not look astounded. We walked past a security guard and through the vestibule. There was a gate ahead of us. We looked to the right and we saw some steps leading up to a lit room. It was a lobby and check-in point for guests. We entered and told him who we were and that we were there to see Mr. Vetrim. The security guard picked up the phone and made a brief call and then he gave us directions to the apartment. He said to go back down the steps, and to go through the gate, turn right, and enter the chamber where the elevator was.

We followed his directions.

Once we were out of the elevator we looked at the doors and one suddenly opened. There stood Mr. Vetrim. He was happy to see us. He extended his hand and shook vigorously. He motioned for us to enter. We did. I have been in my share of large apartments and homes, but there really is nothing quite like the Dakota apartments. No wonder it was chosen to be the residence of such luminaries as the Steinways, the Burnsteins, Boris Karloff, Gilda Radner, Lauren Bacall, Albert Maysles, Judy Holiday, Judy Garland, Ruth Ford, Zero Mostel, and so many other "interesting" people. Clearly Mr. Vetrim was as wealthy as we thought he was. I looked for signs of his family, such as children's toys, photographs, a hairbrush, anything, but found none in my initial glances. What did catch me was the incredible décor. I knew quite a bit about the Dakota since I published two books on the subject.

Mr. Vetrim explained that he had his entire apartment renovated back to the way it looked in 1885. With the exception of some of the modern electrical amenities in the kitchen and bathroom, and so on. It was truly astounding to be there. With the exception of the clothes we wore, it truly felt as if we had travelled back through time.

The rooms were large. The apartment was enormous. The ceilings were high enough to fly a kit. Beautiful brass door handles. Original hard wood floors and crown molding. Large windows. It was too dark to take in a view of Central Park but I could see lights in the apartment buildings on 5th Avenue. It was really breathtaking.

Dinner was served almost immediately. Mr. Vetrim was clearly conscious that I was vegan and my brother was vegetarian and he had taken that into account when dinner was prepared. He then surprised us when he said that he himself would never eat anything that caused the harm to any animal. He had too much respect for life and freedom. During dinner we spoke about your grandfather. Mr. Vetrim had many wonderful stories that made us laugh. He and your grandfather were clearly better friends than my brother and I thought they were. It was surprising that we had not seen him more often when we were growing up. The mood was rather chipper until your father mentioned how upset he was that our father's body was never found, and the constant efforts that were made to find him, and the unreasonable amount of work we had to go through in order to declare him deceased. He did not mean to bring the mood down. It was a natural part of the conversation, and it was not dwelled upon, as the conversation moved on.

Following dinner, Mr. Vetrim led us into another room where we were served hot tea. He began to inquire about how the Shoppe and Auctions were doing. I started to tell him about some of the stories I had heard recently from customers. One had recently regaled me with her tale of being in the audience at the Ed Sullivan Theater when The Beatles first appeared. She told me she screamed so loud that she was hoarse for days after. I then told him about the man who kept coming in to look at the old rhythm and blues albums I stocked, and the poor fellow never seemed to have the money to buy any. He was there at closing one night and he told me that he used to play in honky-tonks in the 1940's. He pulled out a harmonica from his shirt pocket and began to play. It could bring tears to anyone's eyes. He said he never made the money he had hoped he would make, but he sure did have priceless memories. The next day he came in with a friend who asked if he could see one of the guitars. I took it down and handed it to him and he started to strum it. Then his friend's harmonica came out. The two men began to play. Some people passed by and came in and watched and listened near the front door. When the men stopped playing the people at the door applauded and smiled. I looked at the two men. For a split second I could see something in their eyes. They remembered when they were younger. The felt like they were younger. Honestly, for that brief period of time, they looked like they were 25 years old again.

Wow.

Then your father spoke about the recent Auctions. He started running off so many numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, numbers, that I thought he was reading phone number digits from a phone book. Mr. Vetrim looked at him with a blank expression. Where were the stories? Where was the joy? Where was the interest? Sure, the money was coming in. There was no denying that. Sometimes we were astounded what people paid for what we sold. But where was the pleasure in your father's eyes? There was none. He could have sold refrigerators or cucumbers or a 75-year-old custom-designed instrument. It did not matter as long as the check cleared.

Mr. Vetrim stood up and left the room. We heard him say goodnight to the man and woman who had served us dinner. We heard a door shut. Mr. Vetrim returned but remained standing. He motioned for us to follow him. He led us down a dark corridor. He took out a small laser light and opened a box. He pressed some buttons and the door unlocked. We went through and Mr. Vetrim shut the door firmly behind us. We walked further down the corridor. I must have stepped over a vent because I felt a quick gust of cold air rush up my legs and up through my hair. It was a quick chill. Once again he took out his light, opened a box, pressed some numbers, and opened another door. We went through. The room was pitch black and cold. I was sure we entered a refrigerated room. Perhaps a place to store wine, I thought to myself. I felt the hair on my arm stand up, and the hair on my head tingled. It felt like a charge of static electricity ran through me.

A moment later the lights went on above us. It was blinding. The room was large. There was a door on the other side. Beside it was a box. Clearly there was a keyboard in there to open the door since there was no knob. I turned and looked at the door from which we entered. No knob. It seemed to me that Mr. Vetrim may have purchased the apartment next door and converted it for uses that were not part of his daily living spaces. This was a secure location. There were no windows.

Honestly, I did not feel as if I was in the Dakota anymore. Where we even in New York anymore? The ceiling, the floor, the walls, everything was white except the glass shelves on the wall and the cases around us. We were surrounded by Mr. Vetrim's rare collection of antiques memorabilia, most of which was associated with music. I recognized some of the guitars and other instruments we had sold him. Everything looked immaculate.

Speechless. I was speechless.

Mr. Vetrim walked across the room from us, admiring a particular guitar. Your father approached me and motioned to a clarinet. He said, "I remember what he bought that for. It's been awhile. I know someone who will pay four times that. Do you think Mr. Vetrim would sell it?" I gave your father a hard stare. I shook my head and said, "Please don't bring that up now."

I walked up beside Mr. Vetrim and I thought I saw him wipe a tear from his cheek. Without turning to me he said, "I did not buy this from you. I did not buy this from your father."

Your father approached and said, "It is beautiful. They don't make them like that anymore."

Mr. Vetrim shook his head in agreement. He was lost in his reveries.

"That is really something," I said.

Silence pervaded the air for a long time. Mr. Vetrim then reached out his hand to touch it but then stopped his fingers when they were about ¼ of an inch a way and he said, "It is mine. It has always been mine."

I felt my hair stand up again. More static electricity. A chill ran through my body, like ice

water was running through my veins.

Mr. Vetrim quickly collected himself and looked at your father and I and asked, "If you could go back and time, to when that guitar was new. Right now. If you could go back and hear it played in person, would you do it?"

My eyes lit up. I could feel the blood quicken its pace as it rushed to my heart. I smiled slightly. I would have smiled but I tried to contain myself because he looked serious. Dead serious. He looked right at me to gauge my response.

"Yes," I said. "Of course. I'd love that! 1950's. What a blast." I then looked at the guitar and shook my head and said, "If only, huh...? That would be great."

Mr. Vetrim then looked at my brother. Your father's eyes narrowed. His eyebrows came close together. He respected Mr. Vetrim. And I could see that the wheels were moving quickly in your father's head as he tried to figure out the best way to answer him without making him feel uncomfortable for what your father thought was a silly question.

Finally your father said, "Of course I would. What an opportunity that would be. What year did this building go Co-op? I'd buy up half of it and then fly to Miami Beach and buy up Biscayne Bay!" Your father nodded his head in approval of his own idea. Mr. Vetrim half-smiled and turned to me. He motioned that it was time to leave the mysterious room and say goodnight.

When we got to the front door of the apartment Mr. Vetrim asked us to promise him that we would never tell anyone about that room, or his collection, or that we were even at this apartment. We agreed. We certainly understood the security precautions someone like that must take. He shook my brother's hand as he walked out the door. He then shook my hand and as I turned to go he said to me, "Look at this door handle. It's the original. Beautiful, isn't it? Look at the detail they went through just for a door handle. It was made in the days when there were real craftsman, who cared about their art."

"Once upon a time...," I said. And as I backed away from the door I saw that the door handle he showed me was only on the inside. There was not one on the outside. Just a box on the wall. Inside was clearly a keyboard with a digital key code to open the door.

No one was getting into Mr. Vetrim's apartment unless he wanted him or her in there. I learned a lot from him.

Uncle Reese

Please read the next letter. It is hidden in this room. There is a rumor that the songbirds keep singing like they know the score. But that might just be second hand news. Follow your dreams but keep your visions to yourself. Have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: tin.soldier@ RockabyeBox.com

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 6:10 PM

Subject: Autographed Music Sheets.

To: ValTermeti <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Ms. Termeti.

I would like to purchase music sheets that were autographed by rock and roll pioneers. Please contact me immediately if you have any for sale, or will anytime soon.

Regards,

Billy J. Laughlin

Tin Solder Collections
* * *

Val,

Exactly one month after your father and I left New York City, Mr. Vetrim called me and asked if I could return for an extended period. Perhaps a week, as part of a vacation. He offered to put me up in a guest room in his large Dakota apartment. He assured me I would have plenty of privacy. I loved the idea. I had been working non-stop since I took over the Rockabye Shoppe. I could use a break. I considered letting one of my part-timers run the store while I was gone, but thought better of it. I decided I would just shut the store for a week. Why not, right? Mr. Vetrim asked me to not mention that I was going to see him. Once again, I understood. Privacy. Security. I told no one. Not even your father.

When I arrived at J.F.K. airport, Mr. Vetrim's limousine was waiting for me. I was taken straight to the Dakota. Once the elevator opened and I was in the hallway Mr. Vetrim opened the door and welcomed me. We spent a good deal of time together. We had lunch. We played the piano. We sang some songs. His personality was quite a bit different from how it was when I had seen him last. His guard was down. He loosened up. He was having fun. He reminded me of my father. That night we went out to the theater. He introduced me to many of his friends. Many of them performed on Broadway. We got back after midnight, close to 1:00 a.m., I believe.

The guest room was large and comfortable. Like the rest of the apartment, it was decorated as if it was 1885. I woke up a few times during the night and looked around. In my half-daze I had fun convincing myself that it was the 19th century!

Early the next morning we enjoyed a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit, warm bread, scrumptious jam on warm scones, and fresh-squeezed orange juice. We then went for a walk in Central Park. We kept close to the west side since he told me that he did need to return home to make some calls.

The air was fresh, brisk, and cool. Central Park is wonderful. Even though the buildings, cars, people, the machinery of contemporary society surround one, it all disappears once you're 10 feet into the park.

Don't look back. Look down. Look up. Look around. You are anywhere. Anytime. There are no clocks anymore. No steel. No rivets. No honking horns. No wires. No pavement. No motors. Nothing but nature and your thoughts. Close your eyes. Open them. Look around. Trees. Leaves. Grass. The things that have always been around. The things that don't change.

We reached the Bethesda terrace and looked out toward the lake. We walked 2 more feet and went down the east side staircase, toward fountain. Dozens of people strolled near and around us as we admired the bronze, eight-foot statue of a female winged angel touching down upon the top of the fountain. I closed my eyes and listed as the cascaded into the surrounding pool. As we took a few paces away I looked at the four four-foot cherubs representing  Temperance), Purity, Health, and Peace.

Mr. Vetrim and I then slowly walked south, along the lower terrace, and then kept on till we reached the Bandshell. Children ran around us. Men and women were walking together, but instead of holding hands, many were having private conversations on their cell phones, skateboarders, skaters, and pigeons. We sat down on a bench for a short while and then Mr. Vetrim stood up and reminded me that he had some calls to make. We walked along the 72nd street cross drive and then reached Central Park West.

While we waited for the light to change I said that I understood that he had some calls to make and that I would like to walk some more in Central Park and would it be all right with him if I came up in a short while. He turned to me and said he understood and would like very much to do just that but he had something he wanted to show me in his apartment that would make my stroll a good deal more interesting. I nodded and followed him into the Dakota.

Once inside his apartment he heated up some hot water and prepared two cups of tea in the kitchen. He then led me to the living room where we sat. I glanced out the window at the 5th Avenue buildings on the other side of Central Park.

He asked me why I decided to take on the responsibility of the Rockabye Shoppe. It seemed to him that I looked like the restless type, perhaps blessed (some might say "cursed" - but he said blessed) with a sense of wanderlust. He told me that my father told him about my trip to Europe. He said they had conversations about me. Apparently my father hoped that I would take over the store when he was gone but he thought that I might feel stifled there. They said that I was a dreamer, but that I was an active dreamer. I planned things. I followed through with things. Unlike my brother, I did not seem like the type who wanted to have a standard routine. I agreed that all this was true. My father and I spoke about this, too. I expressed interest in the store throughout my life. I worked there periodically. I learned a lot. But I was not sure what I wanted to do. There was nothing about the store that bothered me. I saw how happy it made my father. He looked forward to going there in the morning. He liked spending all day there. He came home with stories. That appealed to me. But when one is young and full of light and ideas and ambitions, a son doesn't necessarily sit back and daydream about sitting in the chair behind his father's desk.

I told him that there are many reasons why I took on the responsibility of running the store. Perhaps there were many that I did not even know about myself, and that only time, or some alcohol, or sleep deprivation, or dreams, or a pretty French girl could jar out of me.

I DID know that I did not want my brother to take an axe and flame to the joint. Sure, it was a business filled with inventory, but the inventory was not boxes of rubber bands or chairs from China that my father ordered in bulk. He saw each item. They were all specifically chosen by him. He made trades to possess them. He touched all of them. Everything. From the vintage albums to the classic cars in the warehouse. These were items that any Pharaoh would list to accompany him in his pyramid chambers. They meant something to my father. I didn't want them to be sold helter skelter, like nails in a barrel. I wanted to see who bought them. I wanted to know why they were being bought – if the people cared to tell me. If they even knew!

I told him, "When one donates blood or an organ they never know whom it benefits, but it sure would be nice to know. Well, running the Rockabye Shoppe lets me see who is getting the transfusion, and the mechanisms that make their blood pump fast, and makes them smile, and makes their eyes light up. It is a great gig. I don't feel trapped there any more than a squirrel feels trapped in the forest. Sure, I can venture out whenever I wish, and watch the action all about, perhaps find some tasty morsel here and there, but everything that really sustains me is back there, where I was born to be. I guess my biggest regret is that - though I have learned to be a good listener, and I have learned to spot the levels of joy the memorabilia brings to people's lives - I really wish I could be more of a talker, I wish I knew what they knew, I wish I could care as much about the items as they do. To me they are still paper, metal, boards, woods, plastic, wire. If the Rockabye Shoppe burned down any night I would feel like a brick hit me over the head but I would not feel like I got whacked in the stomach and feel that searing pain of emptiness when the wind goes out of someone. There is a big difference. Do you know what I mean?"

He nodded that he did. Mr. Vetrim then went on to explain that all of the items he has purchased have a special and personal significance to him. He has only ever bought things that have brought him back to the past, that drove fond memories to the surface, and that had a story. He explained that he feels most collectors of memorabilia are like him. Sure, there are investors who buy rare comic books, for example, and sell them for hefty profits, but the interest in comic books has usually been there long before the purchase is made. It's not just about money. It's about memories. It's about buying stories to tell. Even when they sell the item, the story remains.

I nodded. I understood. I then said something that I did not know I was going to say until the words came out of my mouth.

I heard myself say, "I just realized something. I am not young. I am not old. I have a millions stories to tell that I have heard from other people, but I don't have any of my own. Everything that has always surrounded me has belonged to someone else. The stories are theirs, not mine." I leaned back. I looked out the window. I finished my tea.

Mr. Vetrim stood up. He looked at me for a short while but did not speak. He motioned for me to follow him. We went through the dark hallway that he led my brother and I through when we were there last month. First door. Opened. Closed. Cool air again! Chilled me to the bones. Second door. Opened. Closed. Darkness. Hair on my arms stood up. My head felt tingly. Static electricity. Why? Lights. Brightness.

I looked around at his collection of vintage albums, instruments, sheet music, posters, and toys. Truly impressive.

Mr. Vetrim approached me. "Your father told me you played guitar and where in a band when you were in high school."

I laughed and nodded. "We were pretty good, too."

He put on a pair of rubber gloves and opened a safe and showed me a sheet of music. It was for "The Fat Man" from Fats Domino.

"1950," Mr. Vetrim said.

My head nodded.

"Want to hold it?" he asked.

I looked at his gloves and then up at him.

"It's okay, Reese. Take it. Hold on to it. Feel it's magic."

A slight hesitation kept me from doing anything but then I felt my hand reach for it. The hair on my arms went up as my fingers extended. I touched the paper and I felt a slight shocks. I felt momentarily dizzy and I lost my bearings for a split second. Did the lights go out? It was dark. Maybe. I am not sure. I felt the hair on my head fly up and then come down. I did not want to touch it with two hands in fear that the natural oils in my hands would affect it. I leaned it back on my left arm. I read the lyrics and looked at the musical notes."

"History," Mr. Vetrim said. You are holding a piece of history. That belongs to Fats Domino."

Belongs? I was not sure what he meant by that.

Mr. Vetrim then took the sheet music from me and placed it in a plastic sleeve and then in a thick folder.

"Would you like to deliver this to him?" Mr. Vetrim asked.

I let out a slight laugh but did not say anything.

"Are you ready for that walk now?" Mr. Vetrim asked me. I nodded that I was.

He led me out of the room. I walked ahead of him as he turned on the alarms and closed each door behind me. When we got put of the dark hallway I looked around. It was nice to feel the carpet beneath my feet again. Ah! Back in good old 1885! I thought to myself and laughed.

Mr. Vetrim walked me to the front door and handed me a set of car keys. He said he had one of his cars brought around and it was waiting in the courtyard for me. I told him that I only wanted to go for a walk. He said that he hopes that I enjoy my walk. He told me not to be startled by anything I see and hear, to accept it, enjoy it, immerse myself in it, and allow the sights and the sounds and the scents to seep into my pours. He said that was what I needed to do in order to let stories simmer within me, so I can share them with others someday.

I glanced around and realized that I never saw a telephone in his apartment. I knew he had a cell phone, but considering his age, I was surprised that he did not have a house phone, too. When my brother and I first arrived the security guard called him. Did he call his cell phone? I suppose so. I asked Mr. Vetrim if he wanted to go for a walk with me. He replied that it was not a good idea. He handed the folder with the "Fat Man" sheet music in it and told me to put it in the passenger seat of the car and to lock it on my way out. Mr. Vetrim then handed me a large envelope and told me not to open it until I got to a quiet place in Central Park where I could read without distractions. He walked me out into the hallway but would not pass the threshold. He reminded me again to not be concerned about anything that went on beyond the walls of the Dakota, to take my time, enjoy myself, and not to take the elevator down, but that I could take it up when I returned. He motioned for me to take the stairs. He then shut the door and left me alone. I walked toward the staircase and descended. I felt warm and was looking forward to a nice walk in the park.

At the bottom of the stairs I caught a glance of someone entering the elevator as the doors shut. Was the elevator broken going down, but not up? I was not sure.

I walked out the doors and out into the courtyard. There was no one around but there was a beautiful 1949 Chevrolet Coupe Classic in immaculate condition. Mr. Vetrim never mentioned that he collected vintage cars. He was getting more and more interesting by the minute. I walked around it slowly. It practically glistened. I looked around and once again saw that no one was around. I put the key in the door lock and slowly pulled the handle. I was stunned by how heavy the door was. Ah! The days when cars weren't made of fiberglass! I was tempted to sit inside but it looked so big and comfortable that I actually thought I would climb inside and fall asleep! So I simply did what I was instructed. I placed the folder on the passenger seat, locked and closed the door, and walked away.

Uncle Reese

p.s. You'll never find your gold on a sandy beach. You'll never drill for oil on a city street. I know you're looking for a ruby in a mountain of rocks. But there ain't no Coup de Ville hiding at the bottom of a Cracker Jack box. 
* * *

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com m>

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 7:22 PM

Subject: It's me. Val.

To: Roman <Roman@ RockabyeBox.com >

R,

Thank you for the call. I agree with everything. You're right about using the phone. I won't call again. Let's meet.

D1

2081

980P11

07M

V

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

SENT FROM MY PHONE

* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: leonard.julius@ RockabyeBox.com

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 8:10 PM

Subject: Message for your Uncle

To: ValTermeti <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Ms. Termeti.

Please tell your Uncle to meet me at the corner of 42nd and Broadway. I'll be wearing a blue and red striped scarf and carrying a brown case. 11:11 a.m. 1956.

Regards,

Julius Arthur Leonard

TMB

* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: leonard.julius@ RockabyeBox.com

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 8:10 PM

Subject: Message for your Uncle

To: ValTermeti <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Ms. Termeti.

Please tell your Uncle to meet me at the corner of 42nd and Broadway. I'll be wearing a blue and red striped scarf and carrying a brown case. 11:11 a.m. 1956.

Regards,

Julius Arthur Leonard

TMB
* * *

Val,

After I walked away from Teal's car I walked through the vestibule leading to 72nd street. Several cars drove by. They were all from the 1940's and 1950's. It then hit me why Teal had that particular car out. I assumed there was some sort of event. Perhaps they were involved in a show of some sort. When I got out to the street I noticed there were cars from the same era parked against the curb. I looked around and thought that perhaps the street was blocked off in some way while a film was being shot. I picked up my pace and walked toward and then into Central Park so that I would not interrupt the production.

I turned and looked around me. I could not imagine how a film crew could work so quickly to change the look of the streets, but then again, considering the amount of money they spend on films and what it must cost to shoot in Manhattan, I could see how they had 50 union guys jump off a truck with their props and set pieces and quickly put it all together to the Director's specifications. Wow. Great job, I thought to myself.

I was even more impressed a moment later when I saw all of the extras dressed up like it was the late 1940's or early-mid 1950's. I smiled. I laughed. I love stuff like that. A ha! No wonder Teal sent me outside by myself. Now I've got a cool story to tell. I looked around and the trees looked different. Smaller. My head was spinning a bit. I focused on my feet and walked to the nearest bench and sat down. I closed my eyes. I concentrated on my breathing. I was not sure what I should do. I did not want to ruin anyone's shot. I don't know how the Dakota's doorman slipped up and let me walk by and out without warning. Then again, I don't recall seeing the Dakota's doorman. I opened my eyes and looked around. About 100 feet from me was a tall man in a grey suit with a grey hat. He was not moving. He was just looking at me. His suit was relatively timeless. Perhaps like me he realized he was stuck where he should not be and walked into the park until there was a sign that the coast was clear.

I looked down at the envelope that Teal gave me. It had my name on it. There was a brass clip keeping the flap shut. I turned it back and took out the letter that was inside and began to read. Here is a copy of it.

* * *

Reese,

You and I are alike in many ways. When I was your age I had no mentors to shake my hand, pat my back, or just sit with me. I did not know anyone who could give me any direction and tell me what's what in life. Sure, family and friends and neighbors did their part, but sometimes in life someone comes along with a different type of fire burning within them, and many people want to put it out before it gets out of control. They don't understand it. They don't get that a fire within can burn bright and beautiful and bring warmth to ones mind and soul, and to that of others, if only it is recognized, cultivated, fueled.

When I was your age no one noticed me. No one made the effort to notice that I was unlike everyone else, and that perhaps I could use some guidance in order to make the best use of what I might be capable of. In my early years in life I was let down a lot. I had high hopes of finding a teacher or a friend who could understand me, believe in me, encourage me, but it was to no avail. I felt alone. I had so many things I wanted to talk about, but no one to listen. I wanted so much to hear others say things that I wanted to say or wanted to hear, but I could not find anyone. Where could I look? Where could I turn?

I was always a strong child. I always had a lot of physical strength. It never bothered me to move heavy objects that I was capable of moving. It also never bothered me if I got hurt. I have dropped things on my feet. I have banged and scraped my knees and elbows. I have fallen on hit my head and back. I have seen my blood on far too many occasions to count. But for some reason - perhaps it came from an inner reserve of strength that I did not know I had - I have no recollections of ever crying out, whimpering, reacting with tears or sorrow. When such events happened I quickly collected myself, surveyed the extent of the damage, cleaned and cared for what needed to be attended to, and then moved on with the work at hand.

One exception I do recall was a time when I was stung by a hornet. It was not that there was any particular and extensive pain that bothered me. It was not the swiftness of how quickly and immediately it happened that bothered me. What bothered me was not knowing what might happen. Simply put, there could have been an upsetting physical reaction that I would have had no control over. Perhaps an allergic reaction? I was not sure. Yes, that is what bothered me. There was the possibility that something could have happened that I had no control over. So I walked to the bathroom, cleaned the area, then sat on a couch and waited. I waited. I waited. I waited. Finally, I was assured that no further harm would come to me as a result of being stung. I prepared myself mentally for a turn for the worse, but it was not necessary. I was fine and ready to move on.

Perhaps that is why I am writing to you now and will continue to do so as long as I feel that I have something relevant to share. I am not the best-educated person in the world. As mentioned, I never meet anyone when I was a child who could tell me the words that would make me feel like I was not alone, and that there were other people like me.

I spent many years alone.

But I am happy to say that those voices did eventually come to me. I found my mentors. They were out there waiting for me all the time. I just had to find them. My mentors were writers and artists who existed before I was born, or within my lifetime. Many were troubadours and poets from time long gone. Yes, I learned from them. I continue to learn from them. Many were the writers of books. They spoke to me through the pages.

But the greatest mentors of all spoke to me whenever I wanted or needed them. I found them on the radio and in records.

And that is where our story begins. Yes, I have learned quite a bit in life, and I will share my stories with you in hopes that they may help you navigate through waters you sail through in life. But I will explain to you how I learned what I learned, and what worked for me, and helped me sail through clear, calm seas and helped me traverse stormy waters. You're going to have some good days. You're going to have some tough days. You're going to experience love. You're going to deal with hate. Where there is life, there is hope, but there is also conflict. You will have friends. You will lose friends. There isn't anything you can ever earn or be given that cannot be taken from you, with the exception of your honesty, integrity, and wisdom. Honesty and integrity are within you. They have always been there. You just need to put them in motion. Wisdom on the other hand, comes from external influences. You will have many opportunities to acquire wisdom. I acquired most of mine from the songs I listened to. Friends come and go. Books come and go. Mentors come and go. But music is always around. And that is what I want to share with you.

Look around you. You are exactly where you should be, but the times have changed. Look at people's clothes. Listen to the way they speak. Look at the cars. Yes. It is true. You are "back then."

You are wondering how this happened. The answer can go on for 2,000 pages. You don't need to understand how a radio works in order to know how to turn it on and hear voices coming through. You don't need to know all of the technology behind how a television works in order to press the right buttons on the remote control to turn it on and change the channels. All you need to know is what you need to know to accomplish what you want. Knowing anymore will not improve or distract from the experience.

Think, Reese. What did you do today that was different than what other people have done today? You entered a specific room and you touched a specific historic item. Yes, that sounds simple. How could such a simple act do all this? It does not seem possible. Then again, neither does the world that opens up when one opens up something called a laptop and presses a button and moments later they have access to countless documents on a hard drive. Furthermore, consider the simple act of clicking on an icon and being brought online. Where is the fairy dust? Where are the bright lights? Where are the sonic booms? Where is the gust of wind? Where is the thunderclap? Where are the voices from the ancient gods? Seconds earlier one was petting their cat and second later they are able to type an email that is instantly sent to their friend on the other side of the earth, who will be reading it in a split second. Does anyone really need to know how it all works for one to participate? The answer is no.

Returning is another matter that I will discuss with you at another time. I am sure you have a lot of questions right now. For starters, let me tell you that it is okay to be where you are. You do not have to be afraid of future consequences if you step on a flower. The future will survive. That is all a bunch of hokum created by Hollywood screenwriters. The past and the future already happened. You are just a visitor.

Please put this letter in your pocket and walk away from where you are. Stroll through Central Park. Walk down to Times Square. Look around. Listen. Enjoy yourself. When you return to the Dakota the car will still be there. Look in the folder I gave you. There will be some information that will be useful to you, if you choose to stick around for a while, and find some stories to tell.

\- Teal
* * *

Val,

As Teal suggested, I walked through Central Park. I was not sure what to think. I really didn't. What would you think? What would anyone think? I actually wanted to march right back up to his apartment but I could not decide if I was angry or not. Was he making me out to be a fool? Was he looking out his window to see how I would react? I did not know. So I went for a walk. I wanted to cool down. A cool breeze was blowing through the trees. There was no way to stay angry, or even confused in a moment like that. It was impossible to do anything except enjoy the wondrous moment.

After awhile I found myself standing in front of the Central Park Carousel. I did not know at the time what year I was in but it was such a pleasure to view the hand painted carved figures.

I followed various paths, sometimes stopping and sitting on the grass, and taking in the sights and sounds around me. It was then that I realized that, in a way, the 1950's were coming to me. That was it. I needed to get out of the park. I needed to hit the streets and feel the pavement beneath my feet. I needed to head south and walk toward Times Square!

As I walked along the streets I picked up my pace. I was on the West side of the street and stopped in front of Studio 50 between West 53rd and West 54th. Fans of the Ed Sullivan Show were milling around, preparing for that night's production.

People looked happy, optimistic, and energetic. Looking at all of the items displayed in the windows, it was heartening to know that most, if not all of what I saw was actually manufactured in America. I wanted to walk slow but also wanted to keep pace with the movement around me. Looking around were bars, restaurants, hotels, stores, electronics, clothing, music, drama, the pulse, the beat, the energy of a city in it's prime, glowing, radiating, giving off such a bristling rhythm beneath our feet that it seemed like people were walking an inch above the ground. Within a short distance around me were the best theaters, ballet, and symphony in the world!

The restaurants were all inviting! Where were the chains? I did not see any chains. What a joy it was to walk into a deli and see people ordering fresh bread, sandwiches, buying cold soda pop. There was a flatfoot cop, walking his beat.

Looking up were large buildings, of course, but I was not an insect, beneath the tall towering shadows of skyscrapers that would come in the following decades. The theaters around me promoted "double features" and I smelled the scent of hot pretzels and mustard in the air.

Everywhere around me was what Kerouac called the "fantastic hoorair." Someone asked me for .05 for the subway but I just shrugged and kept walking because what he asked me did not register in my mind until I walked about 10 paces and when I turned around the man was gone. I think I saw him descend into the bowels of the city, or it could have been any of the other countless men in grey hats swiftly walking down the steps.

At one point I reached deep into my pocket to pull out my cell phone to take a photo but then thought better of it. Too crowded. What would I look like? Perhaps a Russian spy. And then there were pigeons. Lots of pigeons. I walked over the subway grates and felt a gust of warm air blow up. I moved to my left, closer to the stores, further from the street. I stopped at a newsstand and picked up a newspaper and noticed the date. I looked at the others. For the first time in many years I trusted what I read in a newspaper! The date. The date. The date. I was back in time. There I was. The 1950's! New York City! I put the newspaper down and wondered how I looked. What did people think when they looked at me? Did they know? Did I standout? I was suddenly very self-conscious. I stopped looking up and around like Crocodile Dundee and looked down at the ground, at people's shoes.

After a few paces I looked up again and I saw a man in dark grey pants and a charcoal colored jacket chomping on a cigar, standing in front of a display cases of costume jewelry. His display cases were balanced atop two large cardboard boxes. Business was good. During that minute anyway. He had 3 women as customers, one of whom had her purse up as she opened it up and took out a dollar.

On my left was a counter pressed against the glass from the inside with people seated, drinking coffee, reading the paper. I saw a sign on the wall offering soup and crackers for .20 cents. 3 men working in the streets. Boots. One in coveralls. Manhole cover beside them as they worked between metal stands holding flags. Steam rose up a few feet from them, rising slow and steady, filling in the air, and I could almost smell the heat as it dissipated into the street air.

Hats. Hats. Hats. Men. Women. Even children! I saw little boys in checkered caps! There was one sleeping against his father's shoulder. I can still see him now. The father had a white handkerchief in his left breast pocket. So many hats! And women wearing pearls!

I walked past a beauty shop, then past a dance hall, there was a man on a ladder hand painting a sign on a brick wall, a theater promoting films show in CINEMASCOPE. Color by DELUXE! A bus passed by. People got off. People got on. Ticket lady sat in a protruding round glass booth. Admission .50 cents. Children. 35 cents. Mirrors lined the wall leading to the entrance doors. Small light bulbs lined the roof and reflected off the mirrors, like they extended on for infinity. Beside the booth was a glass display case with actual studio photographs of the actors in the film's scenes.

It was the city I knew. So much was the same. The street beneath my feet. People, people, people. Cars. Buses. Street light.

Listen to me, Val, listen, listen, listen. The past is not another planet. It is the same. But it's decorated differently, and the attitudes about America, about the city, about the time, about the place, about what they did and didn't do, about the past, the present, and the future were all different. Maybe they were more positive. Maybe some people were more positive. Maybe some people were more negative. But there was a vibrant energy in the air. A sense of being part of something and being proud of it, being proud of being an American; especially as the blush of Victory from WWII had yet to fade from people's cheeks.

A bakery! A man placed fresh bread and pastries into the window display as people walked by. Some stopped and walked right in, suddenly filled with a pang of hunger that was not there moments earlier, and they were eager to buy to satisfy themselves.

Souvenir stands. Hats. Postcards. Even a Davy Crocket cap! The only ones in New York were in the souvenir shops! How does one go back to England and say, "Look what I bought in New York." A ha! It was more about getting a souvenir from "America" - that is where the value was. I got it. I get it.

I continued to walk south until I passed a store that was selling televisions sets. They were brand new. People stood in the street in fascination. There were two dozens sets all playing the same station. They were so fascinated that they were watching anything. The TV commercials entranced them. I stood with them and watched a commercial for Dorothy Gray Salon Cold Cream. They put radioactive dirt on a woman's face to show that it registered on a Geiger counter. When that commercial ended there was a Band-Aid commercial. Someone dragged a band-aid across an egg and picked it up and then slowly descended it into boiling water. I have to admit that I was impressed. Next came a commercial for Gillette Blue Blades. It was an animated show of some sort of critter playing a stand up bass while a voice over sang, "Look sharp! Feel sharp! Be sharp and listen mister, how you fixed for blades?" A few men were laughing. Some sang along. They must have seen the commercial many times before. Immediately after I saw a commercial for the Remington electric blade. It was being used in ways to show what a great product it was. After a little while they were using it to show it brushing the fuzz off of a peach and then it was used to shave the bristles off of a brush. One commercial I remember vividly was very intriguing. It was shot like a scene out of Casablanca. There was a sexy woman in a black hat and black coat with turtleneck in a mysterious cafe. Across the room was a Bogie-style man in a hat and raincoat, watching her every move. She got up and walked near him and dropped a note on the floor. He picked it up and read it. "NEW MUM HAS A SECRET WEAPON." She walked to a pay phone and called someone. The voice on the other line instructed her to deliver the next message. "MUM DOCTOR'S DEODORANT DISCOVERY NOW CONTAINS M-3 TO STOP ODOR 24 HOURS A DAY."

I watched some more commercials and then walked away, singing, "You'll wonder where the yellow went / when you brush your teeth with Pepsodent!"

After a minute or so a man called at me from a narrow door. "Hey, buddy. Come here. You like TV? You like movies?"

I looked around to see if he was talking to me. He was. I nodded that I did.

"Come here. Come on. No charge. I want to show you a film. Check this out. You got red blood? You eat meat and potatoes? Sure you do! Come on. You'll love it."

I cautiously walked through the narrow corridor and found myself in a dark room with a handful of other men while they watched as Betty Page walked out with a red sign that said BETTY PAGE on it. She placed it on an easel and began to motion to the camera. She was wearing a two-piece red outfit that looked like a bathing suit and red high heels. She was standing in front of a purple and electric blue curtain. The Betty Page sign then filled up the screen and then she appeared again. This time in a frilly black and white outfit, fresh out of a can-can show. Carnival-esque style music was playing and she began shaking her knee back and forth and then started rolling her left should round and round and giving the camera a sexy stare. Then she jumped and threw her arms and legs open. Rolling one hand and shaking one leg then the other, then shaking her hips back and forth, then moving in and leaning down to give a view of her cleavage and shaking her butt round and round behind her, while smiling to the camera, then backing up, really shaking it, showing off all she had got to offer \- total burlesque! No words. Nothing but Betty Page displaying her assets and all the men around me were transfixed. It was impossible to take one's eyes off of her. This was more than entertainment. This was what daydreams were made of! Oh, and then she came out in another outfit! She slowly took her black skirt off to reveal her sparkly panties. What a smile. She periodically winked to the camera to the audience – to the men - to us - to me!

I turned to leave and then man said, "Whoa! That's just a peak. We've got more! A lot more! Step in there. $1.00. Watch all you want. Go ahead. You know you want to."

My feet kept moving forward until I was back in the street and looked up at the blue sky and then at the signs and marquees around me. The Sunshine Bar & Grill. Chevrolet! The Hotel Astor! The State Theater! A Kleenex sign! Budweiser! Live Stage Shows! There was a huge Pepsi-Cola sign.

I walked up and down one street after another in complete and total awe as I looked and saw the marquees for first run Broadway productions such as Bus Stop, Cat on A Hot Tin Roof, Damn Yankees, Guys and Dolls, Silk Stockings, South Pacific, The Dark Is Light Enough, The Desperate Hours, The Pirates of Penzance, A Roomful of Roses, The Time of Your Life, and more and more!

A rush of excitement zoomed through me as I walked past the Plymouth Theater on West 45th street, the Ethel Barrymore Theater on West 47th street, the Winter Garden Theater on West 50th street, the Shubert Theater on West 44th street, the Playhouse Theater on west 48th street, the Morosco Theater on West 45th street, the ANTA Playhouse on West 52nd street, the Booth Theater on West 45th street, and on and on and on. Incredible!

As I walked on I heard radios playing from stores I passed and cars driving by. Hear and there I heard bits and pieces of Mario Lanza singing "Be My Love" and Doris Day singing "Bewitched" and Frankie Laine singing "Black Lace" and I even sang along with the Andrews Sister as I heard them sing "Here Comes Santa Clause!" What a time I was having! I wanted to start skipping down the street and clapping my hands as I heard some children on the corner listening to a radio as Eileen Barton cheerfully sang, "If I Knew You Were Comin' I'd've Baked a Cake." Wow!

Hours went by. Hours. I should have been drained dry but I wasn't. I was exhilarated! But, I was hungry. I was thirsty. And I could not do anything about it. Yes, I had cash in my pocket, but they were new bills from our times. If I tried to use them in the 1950's I would have been arrested. And pulling out one of my credit cards was certainly not an option. I wanted to change my shoes. I guess more than anything, I just wanted to take a mental break, organize my thoughts, and recharge my batteries. I figured I'd head back to the Dakota. So I started walking north.

Uncle Reese

Please read the next letter. It is hidden in this room. Here are some clues.

* * *

Val,

I reached Central Park West and slowed my pace again as I felt a slow and consistent breeze blowing out from Central Park on my right and some gusts of wind on my left as cars drove north.

What an impact Christian Dior had on fashion back then. It really was astounding. I won't bore you with too many details, but it was fun to see all the different styles people dressed in and styled themselves. I saw plenty of teenagers in Chuck Taylor All-Stars and Levi's, sporting Duck's Ass hair styles, Pompadours, and just as many with Butch cuts. I saw a few women in silk dresses with harlequin prints, and plain pencil skirts, and little girls wearing Mary Jane shoes, and a guy rode by on a Harley wearing a Perfecto motorcycle jacket, and I became self-conscious once again of my wardrobe. I looked down at my wardrobe for a moment and then glanced across the street and saw the same man in the grey suit and grey hat that I had seen earlier. He was just standing there, watching me. It made me as uneasy as it would make anyone. If there was ever an excuse to say that one was not in the right time or place to confront someone, that was certainly the time and place, so I looked straight ahead and kept on walking until I was passed him. I have no doubt that he continued to watch me as I walked further up north, but at least I did not have to risk seeing him doing so. I suspect that my outfit drew his attention. Heck, maybe he thought I was an actor in a movie. Playing a guy from the future! Wouldn't that be funny?

I soon found myself on the corner of Central Park West and West 72nd street.

I looked up at the Dakota apartments. It was a feeling that can barely be described. I've always loved the Dakota. Always. I think many people are attracted to the building. My cousin especially. I am not sure if you ever met him or not. I hope to introduce you someday. He once told me that there were only a handful of experts in the world on the Dakota and that he was one of them, and after hearing him speak of it, you certainly would know that is the case.

After a moment I crossed the street and walked west on 72nd street and then turned into the corridor that led to the private courtyard.

Uncle Reese

The next letter is located in this room. Listen to my music and hear what it can do. There's something here as strong as life. I know that it will reach you.

* * *

\---------- Forwarded message ----------

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 9:10 PM

Subject: Uncle Reese To:

Dad <AlvTermeti@ RockabyeBox.com >

Dad,

I think I can figure this out and find out what's going on.

Val

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

* * *

Val,

I walked into the courtyard. The car was still there. I looked around the courtyard. No one was around. I approached the car and put my hand in my pocket. The keys were still there. I opened the car door and sat in the front seat. I gripped the steering wheel.

There was a sealed envelope on the dashboard. Here is a copy of it.

* * *

Reese.

If you are reading this letter than you have agreed to take on the journey I have suggested. That pleases me a great deal. Your father would be proud of you. When you receive this letter I will not be home. Please do not come up to my apartment. Please do not speak to security. Please do not interact with any of my neighbors. I expect to hear from you throughout your journey. You have everything you need so please turn on the ignition and begin. I look forward to hearing your stories when you return.

Please hand the sheet music to Fats Domino and ask him to sign it. Kindly give him my friendly regards. Also, please tell Ed Sullivan to call me and remind Bo Diddley that I need the guitar back that I loaned him.

Drive safely.

Teal
* * *

Inside the folder I found the following:

Several maps of the United States. Many of the roads are highlighted, clearly dictating the ones I should take.

A lot of cash.

Several legal documents with my name and photo on it, including a Driver's License and Passport. According to them, I was born in Manhattan in 1930.

Self-Addressed Stamped Envelopes to send to: Teal Vetrim. 1 West 73rd Street. NYC 10012.

Books of stamps so that I may send him postcards from every city along the way.

List of subjects to discuss in Letters & Postcards to him, mainly discussing the great music that I will be listening to on the radio.

A key to an apartment. There was an attached tag that stated the room was in the Chelsea Hotel. I found a short note that assured me not to concern myself with the monthly bill.

A handful of tickets to concerts around the U.S.A. where I could see Buddy Holly, Elvis, Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and more.

I remained motionless for a couple of moments, clearing my mind of all that happened before I woke up. I wanted to start fresh. A clean slate. Tabula rosa. My eyes opened. I not glance around. I focused straight ahead. I put the key in the ignition. It was too quiet. I reached forward and turned on the radio. "Cherry Pink and Apple Blossom White" began to play. I quickly changed the channel and heard the Platters sing "The Great Pretender." I closed my eyes and listened to the song. When it ended I turned the radio off. I turned the ignition. Heard the engine roar. I opened my eyes. I was still there. What year was it? The Dakota's courtyard has essentially looked the same for 100 years, give or take some cleaning, painting, and so on. I was afraid to turn the engine off. If I did I would have had to open the door. I would have had to put my feet back on the pavement. What year was I in? What was real? What wasn't? I did not know. I figured there was one way to find out. I put the car in gear, put my food on the gas pedal and began to drive. I turned around and drove through the vestibule, leaving the Dakota behind. I had a long drive ahead of me. In the morning I was in your time, but in the afternoon I was in the 1950's. Yes, it is true. I looked down at all the items Teal had given me, and then looked around the Dakota courtyard. I put the car in gear and I started driving to New Orleans.

Hey, that would be a great name for a song.

Uncle Reese

p.s. Something's coming. Somewhere. Tonight. Just play it cool.

* * *

From: Val <Val@ RockabyeBox.com >

Date: Fri, Jun 22, 2012 at 10:30 PM

Subject: It's me. Val.

To: Roman <Roman@ RockabyeBox.com >

Riley,

All right, I'll do it. We only have each other now.

V

Junior Specialist, Private Sales

Impressionist and Modern Art, Antiquities, Books, Manuscripts, and Pop Culture Memorabilia.

SENT FROM MY PHONE

* * *

Val,

The reason you are reading these words is because I have disappeared. There is a very good chance that your father has disappeared, too as he came looking for me. The fact of the matter is that he and your mom are the only other people to know about what I have been able to do. With the exception of Teal and anyone Teal may have told, of course. Chances are that I am not in any danger, but something likely happened to Teal and I have not been able to get into his apartment in the Dakota to return to the present. I am writing these letters to you in case this ever happened and clearly it has. I do not know the secret code to get into Teal's apartment and I have no way to break in without getting arrested.

Teal and I have discussed this in the past and he concluded that he and I should put a series of clues in my journals that my brother would find. I cannot reveal what the secret code is because Teal never told me. He simply guided me here and there during my writing, telling me about specific words, items to add to the scrapbook, ideas to alter my sketches, and so on, that my brother would know how to figure out. If you are reading this then your father has not been able to get to these letters and journals and is counting on you to figure them out. I am sure you can. I have always had a lot of confidence in you.

Once you have figured out the code, which I assume includes a way for you to get into the Dakota and to his apartment, it likely makes sense that you will be able to enter Teal's secret chamber and travel back in time, to where I am, and find me. Once done, you and I will be able to return to the future – the present – together.

Before you do anything else, please go to the Dakota and see if you can find Teal. Ask security. Ask his neighbors. Ask around. Keep trying to get in touch with your father or mother. If all that fails, please read the journals and find the clues that were hidden from even me, for the benefit of security.

While doing so, please take your time while enjoying my journals and ask yourself questions. What is the value of the past? What is the value of reflecting back? Why do people save things? Why do people buy memorabilia from the past? What are they really buying? My quest has never been to simply find valuable items and resell them to the person who would pay the fair market value - or more. My quest was to put warmth in people's hearts. I found and sold things that made people smile.

When I was 19 I knew a girl who looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes in such a way that - there was a sparkle. I can't imagine anyone else saw it. Maybe she was not even conscious of it. But it was there. For a moment that is so fast that it could not register with any technology. It could only be seen – and recognized - by the eyes of the person she looked at. That was me. It was there. I see it still. And the smile. The smile that was there. The slight flush of rose that appeared on her cheeks. What a sight. I wish it upon everyone in the world. Even if it is just for a moment. Everyone should know what it is like to have someone look at him or her in that way. Even if it is just for a moment. Even if it never happened before and never happens again. Even if it was just for a brief moment when one is 19. It is magic. It can sustain one who never knows love ever again. Yes, it can sustain them for the rest of their lives. Once someone loves you in that way, they cannot UNlove you. Even if they say they never did. Even if he or she walks out the door on a rainy night and never returns. That person can raid the bank account. They can take the furniture. They can take albums, 8-track tapes, cassettes, CD's, MP3 player, anything. They can pack it all in a box and haul it away. But they can't take away that look they once gave you. They put it into your heart. It entered through your eyes. Yes, it is in your heart and that is where it shall remain.

I see variations of that look whenever one enters my store and browses through my cases, looks around my counters, scans my walls, and then their eyes settle upon something they have not seen in years - many years. But it was never the actual item that they saw. Sure, they were looking at it. They touched it. They looked up and down. They appraised it and compare it to the one they had or saw many years ago. But it was NOT the item they saw. What they saw was a moment from their past. They were shuttled back to a happy moment. They heard the music. They smelled the candy and popcorn. They heard mom calling them in for dinner. They remembered their bicycle. They remembered the sneakers they wore and how they felt. They saw their childhood home – or another home. Their ear muscles moved slightly as they remembered hearing an old phone ring. The barking of a dog. The meowing of a cat. A bird flew by. It all rushed at them like a torrential flood. They always get hit fast. It lasts a moment. It lasts forever. All because of something they saw that I displayed. What a feeling of warmth that rushes over them. It is better than laying in the sun. It is better than splashing in the water on a hot summer day. It is better than a massage. It is better than climbing into bed on a cool Spring night, with the windows open. They are filled with such warmth and they want it to last. And they think it can. And it can. It'll last for a while and then it'll come in waves every time they see the item. They must have it. The warmth will last. The smile will reappear. Maybe they'll show it to others and they will smile together. Maybe they'll laugh.

And all this for a simple exchange of money. So, you see, I am not in the business of selling "old stuff." I sell elixirs that make hearts flutter, make mouths smile, make eyes sparkle. Sure, they look like posters, buttons, books, lunch boxes, vinyl albums, pieces of paper, toys, to you and me. But they are disguises. They are not what they appear to be.

My prices are fair. I make sure they are fair. But I could charge more. A lot more. Because what I offer my customers is beyond price. Can one go home again? Yes. One can. I show people how.

I guess what it all comes down to is that I always wanted to look forward to waking up in the morning. I wanted to be excited about my day. I wanted to be so thrilled at the end of the night that I could barely sleep. That's what I wanted. And guess what? That's how I am now. And I did not learn how to do it in high school, or college, or in any books. I learned it by realizing that all things were temporary. Including my life. And now here I am. And there you are. And you are reading my words. So I guess I have now become what I have always looked for in others. I hope to have a positive impact on people's lives. I hope you are one of those people. I'd like to be remembered for that.

I'd like to tell you some stories. I'd like to share my stories with the world. I'd like to come home. I need your help. Please read my journals. Please figure out the clues.

Please find me.

-Uncle Reese

* * *

Dear reader,

If you would like to read Val's Uncle Reese's journals that describe his experiences traveling back in time and being a part of major music events and interacting with most interesting musicians during the 1940, 1950's, 1960's, 1970's, 1980's, and 1990's, and perhaps help find some of the secret clues that will lead to hidden vintage memorabilia that you can keep, please visit RockabyeBox.com

More info and clues to be found online now and soon from this date. Keep looking. We sure are.

Roman

12/26/12

Asheville, NC

