The house stood, as it had for 100 years, steady and proud among the other houses on the block; some nearly as old, but none older; and none that looked quite as dignified. It was empty now. Echoing. The walls held memories of weddings and post-funeral gatherings. They kept whispered secrets from one inhabitant to another, and remembered the incessant chatter of children growing up and shrieks and the sound of pattering feet. They had absorbed stories of missionaries from different lands and professors and a college dean and those who gave hours and days and years to churches. And graduations. And parties. They had heard weeping both loud and muffled. They had endured the sound of dogs and cats and chickens. And news of some wars. And prayers; prayers for help and healing, for a young man leaving for the military, for babies, for those whose faith wavered, and, of course, thanks in all of its variations from surprise to anticipated to relief-filled. Those walls had loved the sound of music. They had listened to piano lessons and music played and sung for the blessed sake of enjoyment. And for many many years it almost seemed the walls had joined in the lovely harmonies of Christmas carols sung at Christmas.
So on Christmas Eve, after a church service with candles and Silent Night, she drove down the dark streets to the old house and climbed its steps. Unlocking the door, she turned on the light, and walked to the center of the living room. And there she sang the old carols of long ago and not so long ago. She sang for the memories and for the beauty and precious gifts of music. She sang with hope for goodness in the tired world. And she sang for her Savior, Jesus, who held everything together. 2,000 years ago. 100 years ago. Today. And future days and years. And the walls heard. And they remembered.
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emptied the cold coffee from her mug into the sink, and refilled it from the still-hot carafe.
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.
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.
That secret space;
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.
$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.