When I was about twelve, my family was visiting relatives in a small town located in the great state of  . . .  well, it doesn’t matter, let’s just say it was one of the contiguous forty-eight. It was a pleasant little town, one of those out-of-the-way places that looked as if it had sprung right off the canvas of a Norman Rockwell painting. The storybook houses were set on deep, perfectly manicured yards, their long driveways sheltered by leafy canopies of oak and maple, while front porch swings buffered the illusion of Victorian propriety with down-home hospitality.

Downtown, the quaint storefronts were filled with displays of merchandise and smartly dressed mannequins, and people moved about their business in a friendly, unhurried way, often taking the time to stop and chat about the weather or the daily special at the local diner. It was one of those places where you would expect Andy and Barney to suddenly appear from Floyd’s Barber Shop, where they had spent the better part of the morning chatting with smooth-talking Gomer and his celebrity-impersonating cousin, Goober. 

One afternoon, my mother and her two sisters talked me into going with them on a trip to the drugstore. My mom needed a half dozen rolls of film for her new Brownie StarFire, and there was no better place to buy film than the drugstore—because of all the other nifty things you could find there.

We parked on the street, right in front of “Drugs and Notions.” As we stepped up to the sidewalk, one of my aunts noticed it first—a hand-lettered sign prominently displayed in the store’s window: “Going Out of Business – everything 50% off.” My mother, concerned that her supply of notions was precariously low, made a bee-line for the front door.

Thirty minutes later, she began placing her items on the checkout counter, and the clerk at the register began to ring-up the merchandise.  Meticulous at her job, the clerk picked up each item, examined it for cracks, tears or other flaws (as notions are notorious for collecting), and then punched the keys on the cash register.  Noticing the prices were being entered at the regular, sticker price, my mother asked when the discount would be calculated.

The clerk answered, “Oh, at the end, when I take the total and divide it by half.  We couldn’t take fifty percent off each item—we’d go broke that way.”

Now, I know not everyone’s a math whiz.  And personally, I have to use a calculator to figure out a twenty percent tip. But here’s what I remember about that experience that keeps it so firmly anchored in the bedrock of my childhood.

No one said anything. Not to the sales clerk. Not to each other.

There was a line of folks standing behind us, most of whom surely heard the employee’s comment.  My mother didn’t seem to think it important , and my two aunts just smiled and reminded each other that dinner was at six that evening instead of six-thirty.

The point of the story is not to poke fun at hard working sales clerks. It is simply to point out that not everyone is going to “get” it.  Not everyone needs to.  And that’s okay.

For example, when I was growing up, I loved the satire of Woody Allen. And yet, many of my friends thought he was nuts—and not in a good way. Here’s another: Some folks read the lengthy sentences of Hemmingway and find themselves drifting off to places and times that keep them captivated for hours. Others read the same page and wonder if he was ever introduced to the concept of using a period.

That’s what makes the current publishing revolution so important—lots of new voices.  And from that rising eclectic chorus, you and I now have the previously unequaled opportunity to choose our favorites.  Here’s to choosing well . . . and often.

A note about your email:

I appreciate (more than you know) the ton of email I’ve received about the recent posts, “Myths, Legends and Lies,” and especially your comments about the The Kure’s realistic portrayal of rituals and spells derived from the dark arts.  It’s made me wonder about my original decision to pull the historical references and source material from the end notes of the book. I left them out intentionally, wanting readers to experience the story with the same abject horror as those who lived in that time period. Now I’m rethinking that.

What’s your opinion?  Do you think The Kure would be a better read—more interesting—if the historical references were included with the book? Or would it spoil the “surprise” factor, increasing the predictability quotient?

If you don’t want to leave a pixel trail on the blog, shoot me an email.

Until next time,

Jaye