Some Days
I had one of those days today. Started out with a couple vague objectives in mind – get the scruffy Scottie to the groomer, look for some ancient replacement Revere Ware at the local junk stores, drop a crying shame load of shoes, etc, off at the Waterfront Mission (check there for the pots, too). Wait for major dad to get home,so we could take a load of not-so-loved hardcovers to the local used bookstore. That kind of day.
Well, drop the shaggy dog off, check. Wandered up to an “antique” mall on Mobile Highway, and found a few treasures, including a cool kitteh for the Japanese Maple. (Doesn’t YOURS have one? What a pity.) Hit the donation drive through at the Mission, AND wandered through the store. What has become of 1950’s Revere Ware? A year ago I could name my pot, and VOILA! $7! Now, I can’t find the damn things! WHO. ARE. YOU. PEOPLE TAKING MY STUFF?!?!?!
Headed home, and unloaded my treasures, with major dad – back from the gym – making all the appropriate noises of approval.
Grabbed the 15 pound sack of hard covers, and off we went.
Now, I’ve sent him and Ebola over the years with boxes and bags full of books, but, sad to say, I’ve never actually even gotten as far as the parking lot, less mind INSIDE the store. Today, however, I was on a mission. I’ve got almost a complete set of Hornblowers, but damn if one volume from one publisher isn’t becoming a massive pain in the derriere getting ahold of. I figured I might just find it.
What a wonderous store. Lo and behold, my sack o’ offerings got me FIFTEEN DOLLARS AND CHANGE in credit! YOWSAHS!
And didn’t the lady-in-the-know drag me straight to the “Sea Stories” section. Well, hello. There WAS Lord Hornblower, but. Wrong publisher. Waah. Waah.
Never one to let a good chunk of change go to waste, I thought I’d check for one book I’d almost bought at another antique store, and check for work from yet another author, since I’d decided it’s time to burnish my “Southern” reading credentials. There she was – a paperback edition of “Cross Creek” by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. Okay, and…here’s a hardcover Eudora Welty! Only one, and that’s okay, because that’s all I need to get reading. I snatch it off the shelf, too. After making sure major dad hadn’t seen anything he simply must have (I AM willing to share my bounty, contrary to SOME opinions.), I trot up front happier than a clam, and am still – after settling accounts – $12.06 to the upside (They found another book for credit in the bottom of my bag as I was checking out – CHA CHING). #score
Get home, clean the dirt off the terra cotta cat…
…wonder why the Scottie wasn’t done at the groomers yet, and start to gently work the price stickers off the books. I don’t care if I paid $2 or $200 for a book, I don’t want ANY sticker, nor any sticker GOO, on my covers. GRRRR.
They cleaned up real good.
Then I opened the Welty.
And about dropped the damn thing.
Picked it up, and about dropped it again.
Then did a little Googling out of curiosity’s sake, to see if…well…yup.
That was her.
So a first edition, with a lovely personal note from the author. For, basically…free.
major dad thinks in terms of dollars and cents on this one, but, spook that I am, I see a sign.
A “You get writing, girl” kinda sign. Wouldn’t you say?
Messages from beyond. That’s pretty Southern, no?
I’m all about the signs.
Littrachure | tree hugging sister | 
January 8, 2020 12:32 am
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