After waking up at the quite reasonable (but for me quite ungodly) time of 8am on Friday morning I slowly started to get ready for a new day. After doing some reading I headed for the shower and as I was walking around my room in my towel unexpectedly a maid (named Helen) tried to burst in through the door. I had thankfully put the chain on the door so I had time to put some clothes on before she returned to make a second attempt at entering.  As I let her in she smiled and said she was there to change the sheets. It is always a bit uncomfortable standing around in a room watching another person make your bed and tidy up after you so I tried to make some light conversation. I asked her how people in Joburg know which language to speak to each other given that South Africa has 11 official languages. Helen laughed and told me people often think that everyone knows each other and that is how they know which language to speak. In reality (which seemed quite obvious when I thought about it later) she explained people simply greet each other in their own language and based on the greetings they can discern which language a person speaks. However, this didn't account for how friendly everyone seemed to be each other. Helen then added that the familiarity that people witness even when two South Africans are greeting each other in different languages is one of the only positive outcomes of apartheid. She explained that during apartheid black people in South Africa of all backgrounds came together in a community and through their struggle have become forever connected as family. This is why South Africa is a different place to any other because of its history and because of it's people.

... often linger with you for quite a long time. It's been over a week and that odd encapsulated half hour is still poking about in my brain. 

He told me I was beautiful and that I spoke truth...

... and that he would have no recollection of our conversation by the next day, if the memory would even linger with him beyond the afternoon.

------------------------------------------------

I've been burning the candle at both ends, seemingly with a blowtorch, the past couple weeks. It has taken a toll. So when my schedule changed and my appointment was over Wednesday morning, I stalled driving home and diving in to the next item on my massive "to do" list. It was warm yet mild out, September sun giving the day an Indian summer glow.

A friend of mine refers to the little community where we live as Small Town. {Find her wonderful blog full of goodness, here.} Smaller Town less than fifteen miles south of Small Town would seem to most as just a blip on the map. As I was paused at a traffic light, deciding which long scenic route to take, I remembered that Smaller Town had a little treasure hunt spot I hadn't visited in ages.

The shop sits in a converted garage and little addition of an older home along the main thorough-fare. An odd assortment of chairs -- upholstered, spindle-backed, rockers -- old doors and shutters were set outside to tempt passersby to stop. The gravel lot was empty when I parked, so I was struck by surprise to hear a man and woman in conversation and live guitar music as I pushed the door open.

Skimming the large room of antique furniture and grander purchases than my budget or car could contain, I moved towards the noise and the smaller room containing all the smalls. The woman was debating between two dressers, currently being used for display, checking each to prove that the drawers all opened easily. A Small Town mother, out on a walk en route to pick up her kindergarten student at the local elementary, she smiled as I side stepped around her. 

Wearing a guitar, the man was leaning in the doorway that connected to the private residence. In his forties, his curly hair fell in thick ringlets to a point between his ears and jawline. With a weathered face and mustache, he looked as if he'd stepped out of a photograph from the 1880s and just ended up in modern clothes.

"Listen to this song I wrote, would ya?" The melody was pretty, but the way he stared off into space as his fingers picked this elegant weave of notes, harmonics ringing as his hands slid down the fret board was a tad unnerving. I went back to browsing.

"Oh, his wife would be so pissed if she knew he was doing this...," Small Town mother confided not all that quietly as she passed by, going back to the dresser that was clearly her favorite. 

"Uh huh... I wrote that one. Real proud of it, too. I like this one, but can't remember the name of it. Listen and tell me what it's called, will ya?" I couldn't tell if he was talking to me or STM, so I just kept browsing, picking up this and that only to put it down again.

I recognized the opening chords but couldn't place the tune until his voice, all whiskey and stone, hit the end of the first verse in full stride. 

I'm a cowboy, on a steel horse I ride. I'm wanted... dead or alive.

STM distracted him from singing through the second verse. She'd decided on a purchase and wanted him to mark it sold until she could send her husband back to pick it up. 

Now, if there is ever anything that is not for sale or has not been priced in a shop, I invariably find it and want to purchase it. My knack for such a feat did not disappoint. It was an antique book {not like I need another of those}, in German, just my size {I love small books), with gorgeous marbled papers and gilt lettering on the spine that said Prestlebach's Rhyming Dictionary. When I approached him to ask about a price, he stared at me as if I had materialized out of thin air.

I shall save you the minutiae of the rest of our conversation, but it was simultaneously affirming and heart-breaking. An aneurysm thirteen years ago had stolen part of him, and the lingering "grandma" seizures and follow-up surgeries played keep away with his short term memory. Used to hard labor on oil rigs and in manufacturing plants, he chafed at his limitations. Though beyond the inability to work, it was clear the void of memory and experience haunted him more.

It was humbling, hearing this forgetful poet speak from wisdom and heartbreak. I tried to offer him comfort. A moment of being totally present and engaged in talking to him instead of around him or about him, in that way that doctors and therapists sometimes manage. 

The book was $2. As I handed him the money and declined having him wrap the purchase, he canted his head to the side. Regarding me a long moment, he finally spoke. 

"Well, 'm married and I don't hit on women... but you're beautiful." 

It was a statement. Just spoken thought without guile or sleazy motive. Somehow, in the midst of all of his issues, he had acquired the ability to experience what was without the worry of what had been or would be.