Part 17

     I meander around the odd assortment of old kids' clothes and beat-up coffee tables, look over some of the old books – mostly paperback romance novels of the last few decades, as usual. As I finish flipping through a pile of old records, I see another table of books closer to the actual garage. There must be a couple of families doing the sale together, this second pile of books looks much more varied than the first. Intrigued, I move over to look through them, and grin brightly, seeing there are some old books among them. Well, older, anyway, they're fabric-bound hardcovers. Nothing as elaborate as in Mr. Mason's library, but there are some with kitschy 1950s-style outline drawings on them. I spot a vintage original Nancy Drew book in pretty reasonable shape – they're always so cute to read, “spunky” Miss Drew always being independent and intelligent, with impeccable hair and nails. I hang onto that one, while sifting through the rest.
     “If you're interested in old books, you should take a look at Rick's Antiques, over on Main Street. I took him some of my better ones a few weeks ago.”
     I look up to see an older man, probably in his sixties, with neatly-groomed perfectly white hair. He smiles amiably as he tells me this, and I smile back, pulling the second headphone from my ear.
     “The nicer books, he offered to try selling for me, since he has customers that regularly check in for that sort of thing. The ones he didn't think he could sell, I have here.”
     I grin, holding up the Nancy Drew book. “Well, he didn't take everything that would sell. And some of these have really pretty covers to them.”
     He nods, reaching down to pick up one I hadn't looked at yet. “This one has really pretty pictures to it, though it's missing a few pages at the back.” He opens it up, and flips to an illustrated page – they're easy to find, being color prints on a thicker, glossier paper than the rest of the pages in the book.
     “Oh! Those are lovely!” I extend a hand, and he hands it over to me. The book has to be almost a hundred years old, I recognize the style of the prints from a few other books I have. It's a pretty generic handful of fairy tales and probably other moral stories, but the drawings have such stunning detail to them, and the use of color is really masterful. Heck, even a drawing of Little Red Riding Hood is striking – the woods are a dark brown, almost but not quite black in the shadows, even the color of the grass muted to a dull sage, the whole scene feeling so ominous. The red of her cape, though, is bright as a cardinal against the snow. I flip to the back, to check out the missing pages – but none of the actual book text is missing, the last page is a listing of other books available from the publisher, so the missing pages could only have been more ads, or blank endpapers. I smile gratefully at the man. “Thanks for pointing this out – it's gorgeous.”
     He beams, nodding. “Happy to have it go to someone who'll appreciate it. My kids have no interest in anything so old and dusty as these, and the grandkids are too young to do anything except use the black and white pictures as a coloring book.”
     He chuckles, and I cringe in mock-horror as I laugh with him. “Oh, I can imagine! But I guess growing up in a world where every book is full of so much vivid color, a line drawing would seem like it just hadn't been finished. Even when I was little, I wasn't big on old illustrations. My mom would point them out, and I'd just be like, 'ew, those colors are boring.'”
     “There weren't even cartoons in color when I was a kid, let alone whole channels of the boob tube just for toddlers.”
     “Well, we can only hope they grow out of thinking Dora the Explorer has the best-looking clothes! Neon pink and orange, good lord...”
     He laughs at this, and I grin. I give Mary a ton of credit for me realizing that I can be my own normal self around older people. It's so freeing, and just nice, to be able to have random conversations like this.
     “Well, you just look around all you like, I'll be over in the garage minding the money box. Let me know if you have any questions about any of this stuff, anything on the tables on the driveway is mine I'm cleaning out.”
     “Sure thing – thanks!”
     I continue browsing awhile, and pick up a small old book of poetry with a particularly pretty cover, red linework art nouveau flowers on a tan-gold background. I poke through some old jewelry, and pick up a chunky wood bangle bracelet. Then I spot some almost gaudily-bold plastic bangles, some square, some with raised geometric patterns, and pick up a few to send to my sister. She's always been able to pull off bright colors better than me, and these are just kitschy enough to be in fashion.
     Eventually, I make my way over to the garage, and set my findings down on the small card table with a metal cashbox sitting on it. (I wonder – is this something people actually go out and buy for this purpose? Every garage sale I've ever been to, they've had one, but I've never seen one in a store. Do these things just get passed around neighborhoods, one garage sale to the next?) The friendly old man breaks off his chat with another older man, and turns to smile at me. “Well! Thanks for taking some of this junk off my hands, young lady.”
     “Oh, no problem! My sister will love these bracelets. The books, of course, are mine,” I say with a grin.
     “She wouldn't try coloring in them, would she?”
     I laugh. “No, she's not that much younger than me. But she'd probably just stare at them and wonder why there weren't any buttons to push to turn it on and read it to her.”
     He chuckles at this, and finishes tabulating my purchases in one of two small notebooks on the table. I start digging my wallet out of my bag. “Well, that'll be eight dollars if you please, miss.”
     I raise an eyebrow, and he nods, smiling. My little pile should have cost me twelve, the way things were marked. I smile back as I hand him the cash. “Thank you.”
     “You just be sure to check out Rick's, and tell him Charlie Mack sent him a customer – someone who's a little more discerning about book quality than he is.” I chuckle, and he raises a hand to wave as I tuck my purchases into my bag. “You have yourself a good day, young lady.”
     “Thanks again – you do the same! Hope your sale goes well for you.” Lame, but, it's the first nice thing that pops into my head, and I suppose the sincerity with which I say it will make up for the lameness.

     I crank my headphones back up as I continue my walk into town, very, very happy with my purchases. I'm such a sucker for old books, especially ones with illustrations. I'm a little scared to go into the antique store, because I know I'll probably drop twenty bucks on a book of fairy tales – but, maybe I'll be able to resist, with the one I bought today already in my hands. Still, I'd like to at least take a look at what “the nicer books” are, if these were in the outcast pile!
     But not today – I already have a mission to accomplish, and there's not a whole lot more room in my bag for extra purchases. Luckily, it's not much farther to town hall, I shouldn't run into any more distractions along the way. With it being this gray outside today, I'm surprised I bumped into even the one garage sale.
     “Baby don't take too long, 'cause I feel just like let-ting go...” I do a double-take every time I listen to this song, there are samples of ambulance sirens in the middle, and they're so clear and my headphones are always so loud, I have to look around to make sure there's no flashing lights rushing up behind me. “Save... me...” Oh, but I forgot how much I love the closing instrumental! Normally I hate songs that make me think my cd is skipping or the file is corrupted, but somehow the jagged “skipping” guitar solo here actually works, and turns a simple line of a few notes into something really heart-rending.
     And suddenly, I realize I've totally just walked past town hall. I stifle a laugh at my own absurdity, and turn off my iPod, pulling the headphones from my ears. Clearly, I should pay more attention to my surroundings. I climb the steps up to the old brick building, and double-check the hours posted on the front door. Oh good – they're here until five, and it's barely two now. I knock lightly at the door as I enter the little office I asked for directions at last time – and am happily surprised to see Susan there, manning the desk.
     She looks up, and grins brightly. “Kimberly! So you've decided to come spend some time with us dusty old historians after all.”
     “Speak for yourself, Susan!” calls a voice from a back corner of the room. A head pokes out from around a cabinet. “Some of us get up from out desks to shake off the dust once in awhile.”
     “And so do I, Claire – I've taken a break from my desk to sit behind yours! But, Kimberly, you didn't come here to listen to our bickering. What can we do for you?”