Posted By jayna on January 23, 2012
The door stuck a little as I shoved it open. Tripping over the threshold, the bell at the top jingled and I looked for the shopkeeper that greeted me. Self conscious of my own words as they came out, I heard myself asking “Are y’all still open?”
Barely looking up from the old tube television set, blaring a football game, he nodded. Feet kicked up on an old washing tub and reclining on a church pew, this man was not interested in Sunday shoppers like myself. Popping open a tin of tobacco, he begrudgingly answered his ringing phone.
Slowly, I picked my way through the first few aisles, ever minding the man’s presence. Careful not to touch anything, I inhaled the musty air and listened to the rain pinging on the old barn’s tin roof.
Row by row, my confidence grew. Farther away from the sounds of commentators on the television, I began to lose myself in everything there was to look at. Memories that weren’t mine, all laid out on display.
A red cabinet, worn on every edge, carefully lined in flowered paper; perhaps it once stood proud and bright in a kitchen, holding fresh canned jam. A horse’s plow harness, worn hard with work and weathered with sweat and dirt. Brightly colored lanterns with burned wicks and half empty kerosene vials, surrounded with haphazardly filled boxes of old photographs. Faded captures of people, to match their faded possessions. That smartly dressed man, posed so boldly with his hat askew, would have never dreamed that his cast iron doorstop would be marked with a price that could buy a horse . . . or two.
Through each row I wander, pausing to gasp at prices or daydream about someone else’s history. Eventually I round the final corner and reach the very last set of shelves. In front of them stands the blaring tv, still watched by the sullen man. No longer lost in the magic of history, I reach for what I’ve come for.
Turning to face him, I hold out the three small glass jars. They stand between us, him and my faltering confidence. I’ve chosen the cheapest items in this old barn and he begrudgingly swings his feet down from the wash tub. Down the main aisle he goes, expecting me to follow behind, leaving a trail of muddy boot prints and the smell of vanilla tobacco. Reaching the desk, I hand over my choices and wait meekly, as though I am in the wrong and shouldn’t even be here. How dare I disturb this peaceful afternoon, interrupting the rain drops on the old tin roof and the yelling voices from the tv.
After silently writing my total on a billpad and pushing it across the desk, the man slowly takes each jar and gently wraps it in old newspaper. All three a settled in a bag and he hands me my change. Looking up, he softly asks what I plan to do with the jars.
“I don’t know,” I answer, even though each already has a destination in my house.
“Oh,” he replies. Pausing a moment, he gathers his words and then excitedly tells me of a woman he knows that collects them for drinking glasses, and another that decorates with them for weddings. Standing up behind his jumbled desk, he wishes me well for the rest of the day and tells me he knows I’ll find a perfect use for the jars. With a genuine smile, he tips his frayed baseball hat and turns back up the aisle. As I yank the stuck door open, jingling the bell once more, he settles back in on the church pew, propping his feet on the wash stand and sullenly glaring at the television.
Away I go in the rain, confidence creeping back once again.
~ linking up with just write ~
Category: She Writes! |
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