It is noteworthy that, unlike Southern Californians who like to start at 6 am and other disturbing hours, non of these started befroe 8, and there were only a couple of those. Mr Snork and I (OK, I) were overly zealous with our 7 am start. So, we had breakfast, and he gave me a quick pep talk about how we don't need a n y thing. Hours of fun ensued, all within a few mile radius and an ocean background.
There was even an episode involving llamas. LLAMAS. (they weren't for sale)
It was the home stretch, Mr Snork could see our house (well, my dad’s), and smell the chicken sandwich and a nap.. But there were two more garage sales on the block between him and the house. The first had a camp stove that we considered, but then decided we didn’t want to pay $10 for, because we might actually want a fancier one, with dual fuel options and a middle burner. This is important, we cook a lot while camping.
The last one had a sewing machine, but a plastic one, so I wasn’t interested, a giant old paper cutter that briefly intrigued me until I drew a mental parallel between it and old French guillotines. It even had a wooden platform. I decided to hold out till a newer one, with a sliding blade falls into my lap.
And, The Quilt. I picked it up, and the stern grandmotherly lady was quick to say it’s got a hole in it, her dog got to it. This was true, there was a hole. But there was also some pretty rose shaped top stitching. And it was pink. She couldn't remember if her mom or grandmother made it, then settled on an aunt called Barbara Jean. I looked around some more, getting the most out of my last sale of the day, found nothing, and came back to the quilt. Jesse wimpered something about ending his life if he didn’t get a sandwich right then.
I asked the lady what she wanted for the quilt, and in the background, I heard the sound of Jesse melting down. She said, “The one with the big HOLE in it”? as if she didn't have it there for sale, and I was shopping her purse for her personal effects. Since she had no other quilts, torn or otherwise, I said yes, and traced one of the stitched roses with my finger. (Jesse maintains that she didn’t have it out there for sale at all, it was accidentally brought out with the laundry and if she did, it was c l e a r l y meant to line a dog kennel. Which only made it worse, because, c l e a r l y, the quilt needed to be saved.)
I mean, what do dogs know about pretty rose stitching?