Hello, Dolly.

“I think that’s a Seaweed ring,” says Dolly as she takes the silver band from my mom and looks inside for the artist’s initials. “Yep, Patrick Seaweed. The Seaweed brothers are from up north, they’re some of the best.”

Two trays of Native rings shine on the glass counter, and much more jewelry by the same artists pack the display cases in Dolly’s shop. She knows all the artists personally, and is picky about what pieces she stocks. She wants only the best. The Native artists are all from Northern BC or the northern tip of Vancouver Island. Even with the Seaweed brothers, very highly regarded artists, she’ll send back what she doesn’t want to sell.

“See, the BC Museum and all those places sell these kinds of rings for $100, right? Well everything’s 50% off here, so they’re $30. All sterling.”

The Cotton Club, Dolly’s store, is a bit of a hole in the wall. Across Broughton Street from the Victoria Central Public Library, a faded pinkish-orangeish hood covers the doorstep. In the window, batik clothes are pinned to a white lattice sheet. Sitting on the sill–and only when she’s open–are a few pieces of jewelry, some Native, some Thai, some from China. It’s not a place I’d go just by the sight of it. If my uncle wasn’t a friend of Dolly’s, I would have no idea this was the best place to get Native jewelry in town.

“Oh, Les!” Dolly exclaims when I explain how we heard of her. “He’s the best. He’s brought me more customers than I’d ever get on my own.” Les also mentioned she hates to be called Dolly, but everyone calls her that anyway, so not to worry about it.

She knows the place isn’t exactly an eye-catcher, but she’s been around for ages, somehow. “I don’t bother getting here too early,” she says when we come in at 11, half an hour after the sign claims that she opens. “I just got in now. There’s no point. But sometimes I’ll be here ’til midnight, you know.”

Peering through spectacles, she became our grandmother as soon as we entered. When we showed interest in the silver she didn’t ask before pointing out price ranges. Her faded blonde curly hair bobbed as she bent to bring out more trays.

“The earrings are $35. These are $90. Those amethysts down there I got when I went to Thailand. I always go at least once a year to get things. I just got back, actually.” She always has a story to fill the silence. Between the jewelry counter and a dense rack of Thai clothes along the wall, there is not quite enough room for two to walk abreast. Everything is cramped: the display cases, the clothes, the boxes behind the desk, the window.

We mull over different rings, ask her about the symbols. She knows each one by sight, and can usually tell the artist before looking at the carved initials. She gives us orange paper that explains the meaning of each symbol.

“One lady came in here once and wanted an owl for her friend who had cancer. Now I knew the owl was usually meant as a bringer of death or illness, but I didn’t say anything because she seemed pretty determined and you know, I didn’t know if there was something else behind it. But she came back later, and I guess she found out because she said, ‘I can’t give this to my friend!’ So it’s important, you know, to know what you’re getting.”

We each buy a ring. An otter for me by Salish artist Graham Henry, a bear for dad by the same, and a Patrick Seaweed whale for mom. As we’re leaving she calls after me. “If you see your uncle Les, tell him his little friend left her bracelet here! She took it off and it mixed up in a bunch of other stuff. So when I found it I knew it was hers, because I know my jewelry.”

She’ll be retiring in a year or so, so visit Dolly at the Cotton Club while you can. But not to worry–her daughter has opened a jewelry store in Chemainus called the Silver Mine, with the same artists, expertise and comfortable pricing.

~ by jspearing on September 15, 2010.