Some real life situations were just meant to be put in a book.
Last weekend, I met a ton of future characters.
I went to a local auction, held in a small barn every Saturday night. Potential buyers arrive about 5 p.m. to check out the antiques going on the block later that evening. Everything, most of it shrouded in an inch or more of dust, is piled up on stage.
After checking it out, guests head to the back of the room for the main attraction. Pie.
You actually can reserve a slice of pie up to an hour and a half prior to the auction. That’s how good the pie is. And let me tell you, pie worthy of reservations is definitely finding its way into a future story of mine. (I went with a slice of the apple walnut cranberry, but next time I’m definitely getting chocolate pecan.)
The next step is grabbing a threadbare ancient should-I-really-touch-it seat cushion from a pile in the back of the barn. Put it on one of the chairs lined up before the stage to reserve y our seat and then head elsewhere until 7:30, when the auction begins.
The auction itself? Jam packed with characters. All around me were profiles dying to be penned. The auctioneer, for example, is the ex-husband of the pie maker. By the end of the night, hand-carved, all-wood French country side chairs went for $5 a pair while four small candle lanterns—one with a shattered pane—went for $50.
And me? I almost bought mahogany Victorian-era parlor furniture. Sure, half the seat cushion of the love seat was bulging out of a tear in the fabric. And, yes, dust billowed up from the side chairs whenever it was bumped. Then, of course, there is the fact that I DON’T HAVE NOR EVER WILL OWN A PARLOR. But the set went for $40. Forty. Dollars.
I also discovered that attending an auction will make the top of your head and tip of your nose incredibly itchy as bidding exceeds your budget.