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Life, actually…

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TEMPLE BELLS

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This is the way it was one Saturday in my little corner of Down South,

a mere thirty years ago:

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Standing in a stranger’s front yard under a bright sun on an early Saturday morning surrounded by good ol’ boys and poofed-hair women may not be my idea of how to spend an hour or two of increasingly precious spare time. But you know how us booklovers are—we will go anyplace anytime under any circumstances to see whether there is a nice old volume or two worth adopting.

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This is, of course, before the internet, before the smart devices, during olden times of landlines and Yellow Pages and following verbal directions to get where you want to go.

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So here I am, back in days of yore, on somebody’s lawn in the middle of a cluster of middle-aged-ups who are sniffing and poking a Lincoln Town Car that will be auctioned off along with household goods.

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Small wisdoms and unsolicited observations are being passed around like hot potatoes. I have the idea that these are mostly poker-players, what with their stoic expressions and hands-in-deep-pockets attitudes…trying to appear dis-interested and reserved, but watching everything out of the corners of their eyes.

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A faint but persistent tinkling provides our soundtrack, overriding everything so consistently that it is all but unnoticed.

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Finally, I realize that the almost temple-bell-like noise is coming from pockets, where fidgety fingers continuously rattle loose change and car keys and good-luck charms and old tokens.

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The bells will last till after the auction.

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The house on the property is filled with anonymous tire-kickers who have never known its former occupants. And here all these pokers and prodders are, walking about, exhuming previously-loved belongings that no longer belong to anyone, no longer belong to the people who first purchased them with great excitement, with great expectations that life would be slightly changed for the better as a result of each purchase. That life would forever be different and special if this object were possessed and kept nearby.

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People sit on chairs and leave grass stains on old carpets and exhale their stale internal airs, invading the once personal and very private atmosphere that not so long ago thrived in this village.

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Somebody’s past, somebody’s story, is about to be sold to the highest bidder, piece by truncated piece. For a moment I feel like an interloper, an invader, a trespasser. But really I am just a preserver dedicated to finding just the right thing to rescue and adopt and offer a safe home. In memory of absentee family. In honor of all those magical-thinking objects we all cherish and discard, cherish and discard.

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I can never rescue all the books in all the estate sales throughout the planet. And ain’t that about the most interesting way for a bookie like me to paddle though life?

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Cherish is the word I use to describe the feely feelings that arise when I complete my Saturday mission

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© 2024 A.D. by Jim Reed

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