There’s a certain scent in hardware stores – not the perfumy enticement of a department store cosmetic counter, but rather a scent of sort of solid security suggesting all will be well. Likewise, Fleet Farm Supply. Fleet Farm offers more, though.

When I was a young boy, I’d head straight for the toy aisles at Christmas where I found the toy tractors and farm implements emblazoned in their catalogues. In springtime, I’d make a beeline for the cheeping sounds of chicks kept in a large trough under warming lights at the back of the store. As a young man, I found satisfactory clothes there and, when I was on my own, I bought the kind of food and drink a person can actually enjoy. Tools? For home and auto, just like an insurance commercial. Hunting and fishing supplies capped my needs. In fact, I’ve often thought everything I’ve ever needed can be found at the Fleet Farm.

Then one day tested that claim.

I’d been moseying through the aisles, stopping too long at fishing lures and probably not long enough at propane. It was because I was gazing at the new fishing lure in my hand, that I ran smack into a customer at the endcap. She nearly fell, but I caught her; and we stood there for a split second locking eyes and sizing each other up. It was uncomfortable and a little exciting at the same time. I’m not sure she felt the same way.

Ten minutes later, I checked out: fishing lure, trail mix, and Dr. Pepper. I’d just tossed my treasure into the backseat, when a voice addressed me. I bumped my head on the ceiling of my car, and, rubbing my head, straightened before I shut the door.

Why were you following me?

It was the customer I’d bumped into earlier.

Following you? I wasn’t following you.

She motioned in the air. And yet, here you are.

Maybe you were following me!

And maybe you are interested in birdfeeders, but I don’t think so.

It’s true. I’m not interested in bird feeders. Never have been.

I glanced at my watch.

It’s lunchtime. Join me?

It’s been twelve years. We have three kids, four dogs, go to church on Sundays, and keep each other content. And I just picked up another bird feeder at Fleet Farm.

**************

I started this story two months ago. And then my mom’s death stopped many of life’s activities, as it should. Maybe I’ll address it sometime. But I wanted to finish what I started. It’s not as long as it might have been. But I am becoming accustomed to accepting that things aren’t always, or even usually, as we might wish them.

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I traveled ahead and then left as I was sure I should. At what I guessed was hour two, I stopped for a bottle of apple Snapple (it really is the best flavor) and sipped it in my truck as I considered my options. I didn’t care to return home since I’d invested time and gas at this point. Was I headed the right direction? I was so sure. Maybe I should say I had been so sure. The problem with being sure – very sure – is that unless the Good Lord, Himself, has told you, there’s a remote possibility you could be wrong, emphasis on remote. I hate to even admit it. I’m sure you can understand.

The sun was definitely high in the sky and trekking downward. Pulling into a gas station, I swallowed my pride, and inquired, then walked out the door to the sound of laughter a little too loud for my taste.

Anyway, that’s how I ended up spending the night in my truck under the stars, having turned myself completely around and reaching my destination after it closed. Fortunately, there was another auction nearby the following day, and I didn’t care to return home and risk a late arrival not to mention wear and tear on my truck. It was the first time I’d ever parked in the first space in a parking lot.

By the time I woke up and found a row of porta-potties, a few food trucks had begun to arrive. I have to say, my favorite thing about auctions, or anything else for that matter, is the food. I nourished myself with a bag of mini donuts and cup of coffee.

I was kind of glad I missed my intended auction and ended up at this one instead. It was a rowdy bunch and I met some interesting people, one who expressed interest in my truck. I know. Right?

As the day wore on, I was routinely outbid and came up empty. I figured I’d try one more time before I left, though by now the bids were for boxes of things unknown – kind of like a grab bag at a candy store. I got one! Actually two, since the woman taking my money shoved a second one at me for free. I think she was worn out. I paid the princely sum of $15.00 and took them to my truck to see if there was anything of value. They held some pictures taken around the 1920’s I guessed, an old set of encyclopedias, an interesting variety of electronics, and a few things I thought maybe I could sell on FBMP.

My friend arrived Monday to return my laptop. I invited her in and, after hearing about her research paper, I dug around in one of the auction boxes.

“Ah! Here it is,” I said, handing her a laptop. It was a Dell.

“I checked it out. It seems to be in good condition. Anyway, since I have one, I thought maybe you could use it.”

She nearly squeezed the breath out of me, and her expressions of thanks were nearly as rowdy as the auction had been. I started craving mini donuts.

I’m sitting here now, tapping the end table with the card the guy who was interested in my truck gave me. He wrote his phone number on it. Should I call him? I’m leaning toward what I’m sure should be yes. Maybe.

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“No, no. It’s fine,” I said shoving my laptop into her hands.

“Are you sure? I can go to the library,” answered my friend.

“And we know how dependable those computers can be,” I replied, recalling the last time she’d done so and lost half of the research paper she had been working on leading to her being docked a grade for lateness.

“Go.” I insisted.

She went. That was two days ago. Her paper was due on Monday and I assumed she would get it back to me by then. Yes, I know what they say about assuming things, but she’s my friend.

Why doesn’t she have her own laptop? I don’t know. I figure being poor can do that to you. Because she is; not the kind of poor that qualifies for free stuff, but the kind of poor that is enough to make life inconvenient and slightly uncomfortable.

I was up early Saturday morning, plan in my head and truck keys in my hand. It was north – actually northeast – and I knew that if I traveled ahead and then left, I would reach the place within an hour. Maybe two. Maybe three. (Okay, so estimations have never been my forte, and let’s admit some vehicles are more dependable than others which, of course, makes a difference in times of arrival.) But of the direction and distance? I was sure of it.

So certain was I that I left without my watch, the band being uncomfortable, and a compass, because who uses a compass besides the military and orienteering buffs? (Oh yes. I had one. I displayed it on a small round end table along with an Adelaide Hurricane lamp and an old copy of A Message to Garcia. It was a gift I valued because of the giver, but never used.)

You’re thinking I should just GPS it on my phone. Of course you are. I agree, but I had dropped my phone in the community pool the day before while I was trying to find the link for my suit that a new acquaintance admired and asked for, and it was currently spending the day in a package of uncooked rice. (I have to admit my swimming suit is amazing.) No, I couldn’t map quest it on my laptop, which, as you’ll recall was in the possession of my friend.

Some people collect old pickups. Let’s just say they wouldn’t want mine. I started it and set out.

By hour two I was beginning to feel slightly unsettled. Feeling undone would come later.

to be continued . . .

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