A Story Remembered

I must add a short addendum to our blog. Last night in talking round the campfire with our friends, I recalled an event and think that I should include it in our blog. Way back in October when we were staying in Chicot State Park, Sally decided that it was time to get her hair done, so on enquiring round she was given the name of a local hairdresser, about 10 minutes from the State Park. I dropped Sally off and having an hour and a half to amuse myself it went to a Flea Market (it called itself Antique, but it was a flea market) I had noticed on the way to the hairdresser. I had a lovely time there. It was an old barn completely full of junk, overflowing with junk in fact. The dear lady their invited me to dig around as I wanted and left me to it. There were old books, old record (even found an old Rolling Stones E.P.), cowboy hats, boots and shoes old video games (saw a really old ping pong game), however resisted the temptation for everything, except a nice ‘no parking’ sign, which I paid $2.00 for, mostly for the entertainment value of my time there.

As I was approaching the entrance to the shop a young man walked in, looked a bit of a scruff (but so do I) and was looking round - seemed a bit strange for someone his age to be in a flea market. So the three of us talked, he seemed quite pleasant, the woman kept offering items at silly prices, but it was a pleasant way to pass the time (I was still waiting for Sally) We sort of looked at some of the bits and pieces. As we were casting round the lad came across some sports equipment, a whole bag of soft balls and a variety of bats. So we looked at these, swinging the bats, to get the feel of them.

Then as the conversation proceeded.

I mentioned I was from the UK, he mentioned he was from round here.

I said I was retired, he said he was on parole!.

I said I was just looking to see if there was anything interesting. He said he was looking for a baseball bat. (Now at this point I could have got slightly alarmed).

That was because he was on parole he could not carry/own a gun.

“Right” I thought, checking where the exit was.

But no, there was no malice in his voice at all.

He was just your average local, country hoodlum making sure that he could defend himself. So we spent a good 10 minutes checking out every baseball bat, discussing the weight distribution, length and swing inertia, finally deciding on a fairly short bat, with a heavy end, which he paid $5.00 for. Having had a satisfactory conclusion to his shopping we went our separate ways, the best of friends. I went to pick Sally up and he went home feeling well defended.

Once again the phrase ‘Only In America’ rang loud in my mind.