Rubber

I like auctions.  The excitement wants me to raise that paddle until I win that new object of my affection.  That afternoon my husband raised the paddle chasing the other bidder hidden from his view.  Sold!  And the auctioneer pointed at my husband.  I looked at the painting of "cascos" again just in case it looked less somber than  earlier than when I first looked at it.  A known artist painted it in 1962, his version of floating down the Pasig River.  I was relieved when later research proved that we did not overbid.   Still the same colors.  Too late now.   It was delivered to the office covered with bubble wrap and the exposed back showed stains on the worn canvas.  Pressing the tape that held the bubble wrap, I caught an old inventory sticker on the back of the frame.  It read Goodyear.  Goodyear as in the tire company?  There is no mistaking the logo name slightly leaning to the right, bright yellow and masculine.   A call to the auctioneer confirmed that the Goodyear office was redecorated in the mid '60s.  The office never moved.  My grandfather who passed away in 1958  never saw the painting when he visited the office but my mother did.  She, along with her siblings looked at the painting as she came to collect her dividends and later to sell the rubber plantations in Mindanao as the National People's Army continuously raided the area.  Goodyear management persevered and kept the plantations operating.  As a teenager, my grandmother and I traveled to the plantation and had a well-prepared lunch at the Goodyear manager's home, simple and made of large burnished planks of wood.  I remember the walls and floors gleamed in the sunlight.  A tour of the plantation allowed me to sit on a large steel tank on top of a truck that stored the white sap.   Deep cuts on the rubber tree trunks  slowly oozed with the raw rubber, latex,  into hanging cups.  I still have the photo.  It was peaceful and safe then.  Fifteen years later, a visit to Akron, Ohio, the company's corporate headquarters, was not as memorable except for the permeating smell of cooking rubber and the story of Charles Goodyear, that although he invented vulcanized rubber, died a pauper.

When a radio broadcast on my way to work announced that the Goodyear blimp will be in the San Francisco area, I thought of an opportunity not easily available to others.  Gathering enough courage, I called Akron,  introduced myself and the family's connection to Goodyear and expressed my desire to ride the blimp that is now in San Francisco.  It was a cold, overcast and windy day. We met the appointment in a large open field and were weighed prior to boarding. The other passengers were media men with their badges, cameras and cups of coffee.  I thought the blimp was much larger.  It did not look as glamorous, smooth and sleek as it does in the sky or on TV.  In the open field, six men were pulling the ropes down on the blimp's sides to keep it from bobbing up and down  while we six passengers carefully climbed the short three steps to board.   The men slowly released the ropes to gently lift the blimp.   Inside  there was no point in talking to each other. The engine was so loud like a motorcycle in full throttle throughout the flight. It was metal seats and  cramped.  Knees hit the back seats with each turbulence.  The walls of the passenger car looked pretty thin that I did not want to lean against it.  I hoped that it was made out of those thin and strong alloys.   Not being too high up, the windows were partly opened and the cold wind rushed in adding to the noise.  I could see the shadow of the blimp on the ground below with the ropes hanging on its sides.   We slowly passed the Oakland stadium and saw the Golden Gate Bridge from afar.  We were not that high off the ground.  The flight was not smooth and felt more like being on a small boat with the waves hitting against it.  I took several photos of the stadium as proof that we did go on the blimp.  After less than an hour, the loud engine slowed down and we slowly glided back to the wide open field.  What if we missed the field?  I could see the men anxiously waiting, hands stuffed into pockets and feet stomping from the cold wind.  At around five feet off the ground, they each scrambled to grab a rope and began to pull the blimp closer to the ground.  With every synchronized pull,  we each maneuvered to take the first hop onto the top of the three-step stool.  My turn came and the ground felt very solid under my feet.   

Until it falls off, that worn Goodyear inventory sticker will stay on that painting's frame. The memories.....