While his modest home was torn down to make room for Clyde Jennings’s sprawling two-story stone house, the red barn was spared. Then Janie Timmons purchased and converted the fifty-year-old structure into her place of business. Because the building was laid out so well for sales, the woman always moved her large estate sales, like this one, to the barn.
By the time George stepped into the structure, scores of men and women were wandering the barn’s main room, inspecting the lots of goods Janie had brought over from the Watling place. Most of the crowd’s attention was focused on the aisles of antique furniture. In among the columns of finely crafted pieces of wood, Glen Adams, his normally kind face now sporting a firm, almost menacing scowl, was standing in front of the tiger oak bedroom suite his wife wanted. Like a mama lion protecting her cubs, he paced back and forth in front of the pieces he was bound and determined to claim as his own. George couldn’t help but laugh as his neighbor literally barked at anyone who dared pause in front of the bed, dresser, and chest; and if they lingered more than a few seconds, Glen pointed out scores of flaws, some real, most imagined, in order to dissuade them from making an offer. Looking past Glen and a few dozen other anxious bargain hunters toward the far back corner of the building, George spotted the Packard. The car had been pulled in through the back door just far enough to get the sliding entry closed, thus it was sitting more than thirty feet from any other sale item. Surprisingly, not only was no one hovering to examine it; few were even casting a glance its direction. For that reason nothing blocked George’s field of vision as he took in the magnificence of the mechanized marvel.
Even from fifty feet away, it was impressive. With its vertical chrome grill bars, large twin headlights, optional Tripp lights, wide, whitewall tires, and custom radio antenna, it was something to behold. The fancy car looked out of place in a barn that tractors and horses had once called home. It should have been in a carriage house or parked next to a large, imposing mansion. Yet like a lonely orphan it sat among leftover sale items from past auctions seemingly crying for someone—anyone—to come look it over and take it home. Even though there was a lot to see, no one seemed interested in what had to be the brightest and possibly the best luxury sedan in the small community.
To check out the one item his heart desired, George had to dodge elbows and purses and push through a sea of excited prospective buyers of everything from furniture to clothing. The frenzied scene reminded him of a bargain basement post-Christmas sale where everything was at least 80 percent off. And as the clocked ticked closer to the actual time for the auction, the proceedings seemed to be taking on the aura of war. It was man-against-man, woman-against-woman, and sometimes even woman-against-man as prospective bidders locked in a battle of wills to claim at least one piece of Watling’s estate as their own. Yet after he made his way through the maze of items plucked from the Victorian mansion and passed those fighting to own them, he suddenly found himself all but alone at the back of the drafty building. For the moment he was the only person interested in the car.
He had taken the time to look at scores of quality vehicles in his life, but this yellow piece of Detroit iron had a quality and style like nothing he’d ever beheld. The stately auto seemed almost alive, and George could swear it was calling out to him. He drew closer. It was immediately obvious that someone had spent some time with it over the past few days. The finish had been freshly waxed so it reflected the images of the scores of shoppers looking at Abbi’s treasures. The chrome had been polished so well he could have used the hubcaps for shaving mirrors. To top it all off, the tires’ wide whitewalls were as clean as a preacher’s
By the time George stepped into the structure, scores of men and women were wandering the barn’s main room, inspecting the lots of goods Janie had brought over from the Watling place. Most of the crowd’s attention was focused on the aisles of antique furniture. In among the columns of finely crafted pieces of wood, Glen Adams, his normally kind face now sporting a firm, almost menacing scowl, was standing in front of the tiger oak bedroom suite his wife wanted. Like a mama lion protecting her cubs, he paced back and forth in front of the pieces he was bound and determined to claim as his own. George couldn’t help but laugh as his neighbor literally barked at anyone who dared pause in front of the bed, dresser, and chest; and if they lingered more than a few seconds, Glen pointed out scores of flaws, some real, most imagined, in order to dissuade them from making an offer. Looking past Glen and a few dozen other anxious bargain hunters toward the far back corner of the building, George spotted the Packard. The car had been pulled in through the back door just far enough to get the sliding entry closed, thus it was sitting more than thirty feet from any other sale item. Surprisingly, not only was no one hovering to examine it; few were even casting a glance its direction. For that reason nothing blocked George’s field of vision as he took in the magnificence of the mechanized marvel.
Even from fifty feet away, it was impressive. With its vertical chrome grill bars, large twin headlights, optional Tripp lights, wide, whitewall tires, and custom radio antenna, it was something to behold. The fancy car looked out of place in a barn that tractors and horses had once called home. It should have been in a carriage house or parked next to a large, imposing mansion. Yet like a lonely orphan it sat among leftover sale items from past auctions seemingly crying for someone—anyone—to come look it over and take it home. Even though there was a lot to see, no one seemed interested in what had to be the brightest and possibly the best luxury sedan in the small community.
To check out the one item his heart desired, George had to dodge elbows and purses and push through a sea of excited prospective buyers of everything from furniture to clothing. The frenzied scene reminded him of a bargain basement post-Christmas sale where everything was at least 80 percent off. And as the clocked ticked closer to the actual time for the auction, the proceedings seemed to be taking on the aura of war. It was man-against-man, woman-against-woman, and sometimes even woman-against-man as prospective bidders locked in a battle of wills to claim at least one piece of Watling’s estate as their own. Yet after he made his way through the maze of items plucked from the Victorian mansion and passed those fighting to own them, he suddenly found himself all but alone at the back of the drafty building. For the moment he was the only person interested in the car.
He had taken the time to look at scores of quality vehicles in his life, but this yellow piece of Detroit iron had a quality and style like nothing he’d ever beheld. The stately auto seemed almost alive, and George could swear it was calling out to him. He drew closer. It was immediately obvious that someone had spent some time with it over the past few days. The finish had been freshly waxed so it reflected the images of the scores of shoppers looking at Abbi’s treasures. The chrome had been polished so well he could have used the hubcaps for shaving mirrors. To top it all off, the tires’ wide whitewalls were as clean as a preacher’s
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