Read me first

 

Enterprising florists sold off the summer in small bouquets while tourists picked at cold sandwiches along curbside tables.  Clarkston had never before been a thriving metropolis, but the winds had shifted and local politics took a backseat to the new, improved Chamber of Commerce, now run and run over by Mrs. Ethyl Petroski. 

I lived upstairs at 5 ½ Main Street; the first floor being occupied by the Clarkston News Review, although anyone would be hard pressed to find a stitch of news in it.  It was now and had always been the worst newspaper in the country, run by Mr. Portroski who had always fancied himself a writer but who was always at fault in every run-on sentence. The only thing worse than his grammar was his punctuation and the only thing worse than that was the circulation.  He stacked the papers up in the doorways of local restaurants, offering them for free.  As no business ran coupons in the paper the stacks usually remained untouched until he replaced them with the following week’s news. 

The news consisted of high school football scores, a rehash of school track meets and recipes from his wife, who had come over from the old country, but no one ever knew which country that was.

        Living not only on Main Street but on the second floor gave me an excellent vantage point over the whole town.  It was like watching life through time-lapse imagery; Christmas decorations melting into spring planters, which grew into Fourth of July decorations - winding like vines around bicycle spokes.  If I were to close my eyes, I could probably smell Rockwell’s pipe tobacco.

        Ethyl Petroski had not always been so bombastic.  In fact, before her husband passed away, she was just one more face in the crowd.  She had always believed in Clarkston but never showed the slightest spark of ambition towards anything.  Her involvement in the community was non-existent, with the exception of submitting recipes to her husband’s paper.  The change in her personality came almost the same moment the last shovel of dirt was tossed on her husband’s grave.  As everyone was walking back to their cars she glanced over at her neighbor, Sarah, who was walking along side and suggested the two of them go in with Lois and have a garage sale. 

        “I’m going to shut down the newspaper, sell all of the clutter, she said.  I certainly won’t need his tools, that old trunk or that stupid tuba.”

        Sarah wasn’t sure how to respond as she had never seen this side of Ethyl.  She took a few more steps and then smiling slightly agreed.  “A three-family garage sale should attract a good crowd.  I’ll even set up some coffee should anyone want some.”

        Ethyl didn’t acknowledge her but simply climbed behind the wheel of the old Cadillac and drove off.

 

 

 If you have read, The Garage Sale Tuba, found
in the book, The Pantry,
the above story will make sense to you.