Our first stop was in a woman’s garage, where there were two tables. One was covered with the usual yard sale nonsense, and the other was covered entirely with shoes. Large shoes. Large, sensible shoes. I had never seen so many large shoes in one location. If my husband had ever harbored a secret desire to be a cross-dresser, now was his time to step up and claim his prize.
While we were still gawking at the dozens of pairs of shoes, a raspy voice piped up from the rear of the garage.
Woman: What size shoes do you wear?
Me: Er... Seven and a half, maybe an eight.
Woman: Oh. Do you know anyone who wears a fourteen?
Me: Ooh, not off the top of my head. Sorry.
Woman: Do you see those blue ones? I had those specially dyed to match a dress. I won’t take less than twenty dollars, since I had to pay to have them dyed.
Me: I... okay.
Woman: You know, you could stuff some tissue in the ends and they would fit you just fine.
Me: Um, I don’t think so.
She continued to talk for a while, moving away from her attempts at peddling Janet Reno’s shoe collection until she started going on about her joints and how the doctors had ordered her to quit smoking, but then she’d gotten too jittery, so she’d started smoking again, and-
Woman: Are you sure you don’t want those red ones?
Me: No, I... I... I’m just going to... walk over here now.
We continued down the street, stopping here and there, buying some hot dogs and homemade fudge as if we were running a marathon and someone was passing out little paper cups of water for us to splash on our faces and renew our strength.
The next house we visited turned out to be the proverbial holy grail of yard sales. I think they may have had the actual holy grail tucked away somewhere, behind some mismatched salt and pepper shakers and a stack of Gordon Lightfoot albums. There were antique binoculars from Paris, century-old cameras, a collection of pocket watches, a tray of what appeared to be old medical instruments and tools. I stood there salivating while trying not to remind myself that I only had five dollars in my wallet.
I grabbed the binoculars and one of the watches, and when a young woman appeared at the door, she told me that everything had belonged to her great-grandmother, who apparently was awesome and had traveled across Europe and there may have been ballooning involved but we unfortunately had to leave before she presented us with one of the bullets that her great-grandmother may have used in an attempt to kill Rasputin because we were out of cash and you really can’t haggle with someone when your end of the bargain involves NOTHING.
Clutching my nifty binoculars and my watch (which the woman said didn’t work, but I didn’t care) we began our trek back to our own house, when my husband suddenly darted from the sidewalk, racing toward a collection of tables covered with... owls.
I trudged up behind him, to find him deep in conversation with an elderly, white-haired woman.
Husband: You have a lot of owl stuff here.
Elderly White-Haired Woman: I JUST LOVE MY OWLS.
Husband: And this painting... My parents had this painting in their house.
Elderly White-Haired Woman: I’VE BEEN COLLECTING OWLS ALL MY LIFE.
Husband: Really?
Elderly White-Haired Woman: NOW MY SISTER, SHE HAS EVEN MORE OWLS THAN I DO.
Husband: That’s fantastic. So... how much for this painting?
Elderly White-Haired Woman: THAT ONE? TWENTY-FIVE CENTS.
Husband: Is that all?
My husband fished around in his pockets and managed to produce a quarter. After completing the transaction and sending the woman back to her owl-induced bliss, he ran back to me, all smug smiles and happiness at the beautiful picture he’d acquired for mere spare change.
Hmm.
I had to Google it once we arrived back at the house. The trouble was, part of the title and the artist's name had been cut off at some point, so the only thing I had to go on was "Richard" and "Screech". Funny enough, when I typed in those two words, Google asked me if I was looking for Richard Hinger Screech Owl Painting.
Yes. Yes, I was.
Apparently, Richard Hinger was (Is? I don't know. My Google prowess didn't take me that far) a man who liked to paint owls.
Also, I think that the baby owl wants to kill me.
Seriously. He wants nothing more than to peck out my eyes and wear my chin for a hat.
My husband declared that he wanted to hang the picture in the upstairs bathroom. I went along with this, not thinking anything of it. Until I went to use the bathroom for the first time after the picture was placed on the wall, and I found myself staring at this from the toilet.
(My bathroom looks like it stepped out of a Comfort Inn. Yes, this is a thing that I am aware of.)
Now, every time I step out of the shower, every time I glance over my shoulder while swiping on mascara, this is what stares back at me.
If you find me dead tomorrow, claw marks on my face and my corpse littered with feathers, you know who is responsible.
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