I’m so sorry that I haven’t been posting early, the last couple of days. I would like to pretend that it is because I am so enthralled with the seminars my son’s university has put together for us parents during the freshman orientation, but that would be a lie. Since my son is attending the same university that his older brothers have attended, I could honestly run some of the parent seminars myself. I have the slogans and fight songs memorized and I don’t need another campus tour. So, instead of attending the refresher courses this morning, my husband and I escaped to a quaint little historical nearby town, about 20 minutes away from campus. This town is known for its history and its antiquities, not for its WiFi connections. I cannot pretend that I found that fact to be entirely disappointing. This was one of those towns that really did feel like a movie set, a movie set dedicated to a different era – a time period when everything was slower paced, so slow-paced that it was like the town had decided to stand still and stay a while, swinging on the porch, as everything and everyone surrounding it, sped into the future at high-tech, warp speeds.
I wandered into one intriguing shop and got to talking with the owner, a lovely, dignified woman, who told me that she had owned and run the shop for 39 years. Her shop was “a feast for the eyes” and even though it was crammed full of things, she had so thoughtfully and so tastefully displayed everything, that it felt like you were walking through a perfectly restored story book. You started out in a lovely, aromatic garden section, walked through a festive Christmas village, wound around into an old-timey Americana rustic display of antiques and relics that still retained their original charm and now commanded prices ten times more than their original costs, and finally ended up in a corner of delightful Halloween decorations. This holiday corner almost managed to put the Christmas town to shame. The Halloween section was unbelievable, not at all kitschy, even with its bright, glittering orange trinkets covering the walls and the ceiling, from every imaginable angle.
“You really have an eye,” I told the owner. “I wish that I could make Halloween look like this, in my home . . . if it did, I would probably keep the decorations up, all year long, it’s that pretty!”
“Oh, it’s easy. You just need a lot of cute stuff,” she said modestly.
“No, usually a lot of stuff looks like a garbled, cluttered mess, but you make it look like a sensible, beautiful pattern,” I insisted.
She sighed. “You are right. I couldn’t teach any young ladies to do this anymore. They aren’t interested. These types of stores are soon to be relics of the past.”
I wanted to assure her that she was wrong, even as I sheepishly thought about how much of my own shopping habits have changed over the years. I probably shop for at least 80 percent of my purchases online and have them conveniently delivered right to my front door. The shop owner and I talked some more and I opened up to her about playing hooky from parent orientation. I admitted to this perfectly lovely stranger that I was growing out of the occupation (motherhood) that had been my major purpose in life, for over 23 years, and that I was struggling to find my next thing.
“That’s a hard stage. It’s hard when things come to a close,” the shop owner sighed again. We looked at each other knowingly, kindly, comfortingly. And then I purchased a beautiful Christmas ornament, fashioned from antique porcelain which was dressed up with a bow that the owner admitted that she had added to it, because her discerning eye knew that it was the bow that was the needed, magical touch. She wrapped my ornament carefully in beautiful colored tissue paper, and placed it gently in a brightly colored bag. And then, as I reluctantly left the unique and charming store, a store that reflected the love and creativity of the owner who nourished it, she smiled at me as she followed behind me. Then, she hesitantly turned the sign, the attractive sign hanging on the front door of the store, the sign adorned with a delicate, carefully considered ribbon of rope, to . . . Closed.