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Spires: Buying junk
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Spires: Buying junk

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Over the past few weeks, I have been having a number of strange dreams. One in particular stands out.

I dreamed that I was on a road trip, with a friend, through South Georgia and looking for a warehouse.

That is strange, because I don’t really know why we were looking for a warehouse. That part of the dream was not made clear to me for some reason.

We drove from town to town looking at old tobacco warehouses and worn-down factories, which, by the way, are scattered across that area.

Nothing caught our fancy until we got to Edie (I don’t believe there is a town by that name), where we drove down the main street looking for an old building.

Just as we were leaving town, we saw a bunch of old farm equipment, old cars and farm trucks sitting in the front yard of a run-down antebellum house. My buddy, who was driving, decided to stop. He wanted to look at all of the equipment.

We pulled off the road, parked and walked around in the yard looking at all of the old equipment. After we had been there a few minutes we heard someone speak.

“Can I help you fellows?” a man who had been sitting in the front seat of one of the old farm trucks asked. We had not seen him sitting there when we drove up.

“We were just driving by and saw all of the equipment, decided to stop and take a look,” I told him as he walked toward us.

“Everything here is for sale. Make me and offer and it will probably be yours,” he responded.

Like kids in a candy store, we started looking with earnest.

“How much for this?” my friend asked as he pointed at a plow leaning against one of the trucks.

“I’ll tell you what: just pile up over here what you want and I’ll give you a deal on all of it,” he said.

For a couple of hours, we gathered up pieces of stuff and put it in a pile like he had said. We had enough to fill up the truck we were driving and figured we better stop gathering stuff up.

There was a 1929 Ford pickup we both liked, so we asked him what he wanted for it.

“I’m not gonna sell that or the tractors or the farm trucks,” he said.

Disappointed, we asked him what he wanted for the large pile of old farm utensils we had gathered.

“I’ll take a $100 for the lot,” he said.

As quickly as he gave us the price, we took our money out and paid him.

It took a few minutes to load everything in the truck and we were own our way, proud of all the stuff we had bought.

I told my wife the next day about the dream and she gave me a strange look.

“Just so you know, that better have been a dream, because the one thing we don’t need around here is more junk,” she told me with a hint of anger in her voice.

Byron Spires is a retired newspaper editor. He has written dozens of short stories and serials in the Havana Herald. He recently published “The Curious Life of Marci Bell” in a series of three books. You can email him at byronspires51@gmail.com.

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