We go a few miles from where
we live to an #estate #sale where we buy a bug-eyed, orange deer mask mounted
on a metal stand worth more than the mask – the sale was at the home of a man
who built metal stands for sculpture and other art objects. We also got earphones for protection
when familiarizing with our shotgun, a stapler and a low, round, complexly
molded metal table perfect for the chair in my office that we got from another
estate sale.
While visiting another estate sale,
Grace saw a bench that would be perfect for the end of the bed. It was four feet long, 18 inches deep,
and covered in blue calico. But
she didn’t decide to buy it until a day or two later. While getting her nails done, she called me and asked me to
find out if it is still for sale.
I called the woman in charge, a
charming person from Dallas, and she said that the townhouse/home that was the
site of the sale is “completely empty.
Nothing is there.”
I call Grace. While someone is fiddling with her
nails, I tell her, “The home is empty.
Nothing is there.”
Grace turns pale and stutters,
“Everything is gone?” The nail
attendants, noticing Grace’s shock, hover close to her. They ask if there is anything they can
do for her.
I repeat, “The home is empty.”
Grace fears that I am referring to
our El Dorado home, that it has been somehow looted and emptied in the few
minutes it took her to drive from our place to the nail salon – obviously by
some very energetic burglars.
After a few more attempted
explanations and clarifications, during which time the attendants handed her a
glass of water and tried to calm her, Grace understood that I was NOT referring
to 6 Estambre Place, where we now display our tchotchkies of the dead, but the
townhouse that was the location of the estate sale.
She was quite relieved, so
much so that the news that the calico-covered bench was no longer for sale was
almost happily received.
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