The Man Who Sold Umbrellas

The Man Who Sold Umbrellas

by Philip Mason on Thursday, December 17, 2009 at 3:17am

On the corner of Robins Road and Harriman Boulevard there was a small shop. It was a shop where the people of Middleton could buy newspapers, coffee, candy, magazines, and on occasion, umbrellas. The umbrellas were hand made by the shop keeper, Robert. Robert was 52 years old, lived alone and made the umbrellas in his house, just three blocks away from his shop. He'd lived in this town his entire life, had a number of jobs, learned a variety of skills and trades, but at this point in his life he was content owning his small shop and making umbrellas.

Robert hadn't been making umbrellas for long, as a matter of fact. Before he owned his shop he worked as a mechanic at one of only three auto-repair facilities in the small town. Before that, Robert worked as a cook at a restaurant that had shut down and was by now long forgotten. Before being a cook, Robert had held plenty of other jobs. Some for a few months, some for a few years. But now he owned a shop and he made umbrellas.

Most of the money that Robert made from his shop was not from the sales of umbrellas, but from the regular things that people bought every day: the newspaper, beverages, snacks, magazines, and the other little things that end up in the garbage or forgotten by the end of the day. When Robert first opened his shop he had no intention of making umbrellas. When he had opened his shop eight years earlier his wife had just been diagnosed with brain cancer. She died within five months of the diagnosis and Robert's entire life came falling down around him.

In the months following his wife's death, Robert tried to find ways to occupy his mind and energy so as to not dwell on his loss. He knew the only way to overcome grief after such a period of time was to make himself busy and fulfilled in some way. His job at the shop, while decent and making him enough money to support himself, was in no way fully fulfilling in the way that he needed. He still had to come home at the end of the day to the house he had shared with his wife for twenty years. Robert thought that a good way to occupy himself would be through some creative medium, creating something that he could enjoy making and that in the end would give him a sense of pride or creative expression. What this medium should be, however, was not known to Robert. He'd never been a particularly artistic person, he'd admit to anyone. Though he loved music, he never desired learning to play an instrument at any point in his life. He had grown impatient with himself in terms of other artistic expressions, such as painting or drawing, having had awful experiences with art classes in his days in school. Even as a cook years earlier, Robert had felt that his creativity was severely limited. It seemed to Robert that just trying to come up with an idea to keep him busy and his mind occupied would be occupation enough for him.

As Robert continued to work at his shop in the day and continued to ponder on prospects for new hobbies in the evening, he grew depressed and lonely. Almost a year had gone by since his wife's passing, and he still felt as though he were at the same miserable point he'd been when she first died. In their house, his wife had had a room where she liked to sew and paint. Unlike Robert, she had always been active in these sorts of things. Robert left the room as it was when she died. For the first few weeks after her death he would go into the room every day just to sit and look at everything she'd left behind. As the weeks turned to months, Robert entered the room less and less. At this point he hadn't gone in the room in three whole months. His depression seemed to keep him from entering the room, as he feared that walking into it would break his spirits, and send him into a hysterical fit of tears. But in his desperate need for inspiration and ideas for finding an outlet for his thoughts and tense, pent up emotions, he entered the room for the first time in three months.

It was still just as his wife had left it. But instead of feeling a sudden and overwhelming sadness as he had originally expected, Robert found that he felt a slight sense of relief. Coming into this room had not been a devastating blow to his soul, but rather a surprisingly uplifting breath of fresh air. Within seconds he was inspired to finally change this room that had sat stuck in time for almost a year. He would leave his wife's things in here, but he would use this room to create something. He would find his creativity flowing in this very room just as his wife had.

As he spent the next hour organizing the room and setting aside his wife's things into a neat collection by the wall, he started to wonder what sort of project he could immerse himself in that would be worthy of using this space. He spent the rest of the night wondering about this, reaching no suitable conclusions.

The next day was a rainy one. Robert opened his shop at 6 in the morning, as he did every day, and dealt with the regular customers and the occasional not-so-regular customers. At the end of the day he closed up his shop and began to walk home. The rain was pouring, and he was lucky to only have to walk three blocks to get home. As he crossed the street in the downpour, holding his umbrella, Robert spotted a woman and her two children running down the sidewalk in his direction. They were obviously trying to escape the heavy rain and were without umbrellas. As they were about to run past him, Robert shouted to the woman.

"Excuse me!" he yelled. "Here, please take this. I don't need it!" He handed the umbrella to the woman, who slowed down as she got closer to him. "I mean it. Please take it."

She looked at him with a bit of surprise, but with the rain pouring down as hard as it was, she didn't look much longer. She happily accepted the umbrella and held it over herself and her two young children. "Thank you so much," she said to Robert with a smile on her face. Her two children looked at her and smiled as well.

Robert smiled at them and continued home. When he arrived he was soaking wet. He was drenched from head to toe and rather cold, yet felt happier than he'd felt in the last 11 months. He spared no time after getting in the door and rushed into the room in which he was to begin his project. Now he knew what it was he wished to create. He thought it fitting to use the space his wife had previously used for her creative projects to have a creative project of his own, one that would also benefit others. He would make umbrellas. He had no idea how to make an umbrella, but he was determined to learn.

The way he saw it, umbrellas were a perfect choice. Umbrellas were the protectors against rain. To Robert, rain was just another metaphor for misery, sadness, despair, depression, all sorts of unpleasant feelings and thoughts. If one could have a barrier between himself and rain, Robert thought, one could wander along in peace and relative dryness. Dryness, he thought, perfectly symbolized being content with one's life and surroundings. Being dry was another way of saying you were just fine. Robert had stumbled upon a perfect idea. Perfect ideas, he realized, were few and far between. He wasn't going to let this one get away.


Robert learned to make umbrellas in his own unique way, though they didn't differ to greatly from traditional umbrellas. Robert's umbrellas were each unique in their own way, no two being the same. He instantly put them on sale in his shop.

Years later, Robert had sold thousands of umbrellas. This was no minor accomplishment, as his small town held only a few thousand people. Although there were plenty of places in the town to buy umbrellas, Robert's small shop had sold more than any other establishment in the previous few years. His umbrellas weren't seen merely as practical devices to defend against the elements, but as testaments to a love that never died, and saviors against the blues in all its forms. Though his umbrellas weren't of the greatest manufacturing quality, and sometimes would fall apart in a fraction of the time that a typical umbrella might, they were used by their owners for all rainy occasions due to the personal significance the buyers saw in their design. Where a normal umbrella was a one-way deflector of falling rain, these umbrellas were entirely all-encompassing deflectors of tragedy and sadness. Robert put every ounce of his devotion into each umbrella.

Umbrellas would never be Robert's main source of income. He still sold more newspapers, candy, and cups of coffee at his shop than he did umbrellas. But the way he saw it, each umbrella he sold was some kind of confirmation of how much others in this city were just like him. They wanted to feel safe from life's more difficult times, to shield themselves from the desultory harshness that can sometimes find itself raining down on them. When dark clouds foreshadowed anguish and sorrow, Robert's umbrellas would offer some kind of emotional defense.


The End.