20 01 2008

As a kid, I spent winter Saturdays feasting on rummage sales, stuffing my bike baskets with immense ballgowns, glittery shoes and costume jewelry–a buck a bag; in summer my dad and I cruised flea markets, antique shops, yard sales, he chasing coins, I antique spectacles, postcards, photos–anything humming with stories. When I found an odd wicker rocking chair, missing a rocker, my parents wouldn’t lend me the quarter it cost. But my grandfather not only dug into his pocket but into the far reaches of our dirt-floored basement where he turned up an orphan rocker, mustard yellow, a perfect fit.




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