I had the opportunity today to go over yonder. I went in search of old windows that I am going to use for some crafty purpose of my own. They were mentioned in passing by two people having a conversation on a swap-shop web page I sometimes visit and I pounced into the middle of their talk rather abruptly, extracting directions to the window purveyor’s house from one of the chatters.
The directions were typically southern. I was to “go past the old bowling alley“. I’ve lived here long enough now to know that means that I am to go past the community college, which is what is there now. Thirty-five or so years ago, however, there was indeed a bowling alley on that site. And then to “turn left at the burned out house”. I have no idea if the pile of vine covered rubble at the intersection in question is really the leftovers of a burned house or not and lack the initiative to investigate, since I now know which road that signifies in local patois.
Further instructions told me to “go on yonder-ways around a big curve and when you pass the brick house, turn in the driveway next to it.” I’ve been on the road in question before. It is made up almost entirely of curves. Brick houses aren’t uncommon either. I wasn’t at all sure which curve my navigator was referring to, but I thought it might be alright when she added the fact that there were a “bunch of goats in a pen and one of those miniature horse things staked out in the front yard.”
So I set out, intrepidly, on a gloomy, drippy Thursday, searching for old windows. The azaleas are in full bloom now. Huge old bushes leaping forth in eye aching, old fashioned colors, backed up by delicate, lacy dogwoods, like fairy garlands glowing against the pines. They lit up the dark day and by the time I found the window house they had cheered me immensely.
The horse was not staked in the yard, but rather charging about the driveway, jerking a skinny teenage boy around on the end of a rope. They were under the watchful supervision of a pale, cheery woman with astonishingly red hair. She turned out to be the window purveyor. We squelched through the mud out to a huge barn and there were my windows, leaning against the side. I bought 3, while she told me, by way of explaining the huge variety of stuff inhabiting her barn lot, about the flea market store she and her husband had run “before the economy had gotten so bad”. So now they still had the stuff and were just trying to “do something with it”.
I asked her if the little horse had been part of the left over flea market stock. She laughed and allowed that she had just run across him in a bad situation and was trying to improve his lot in life. At first she’d thought she’d make a little money on him, but now she doubted it. “He’s a stud horse,” she said, “and he has no idea of his size……..just like any man.” She gave a wicked grin. We chatted a few more minutes as she helped me load up my new windows. Then the teenage boy began hovering in the background and they went off to do something else with the horse. I drove home in a very optimistic mood.


1 Comment

  1. susan said,

    April 5, 2013 at 1:31 am

    Great start! Love it.

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