Earlier this week I was in downtown Perry. I spent some time walking up and down Carol St. soaking in the comforting early fall weather that has recently fallen upon the town. The leaves haven’t turned their seductive reds, yellows and oranges yet, and it is still warm enough to wear flip-flops and a shirt during early morning and mid-day, which I was.
I went in the Go-Fish store to visit a friend who works there. Go-Fish
is an interesting little store full of different art pieces made by starving persons in Africa. They sell everything from little carved frogs to five foot tall creations of animal combinations such as camonkeys (camel/monkey) and eleraffes (elephant/giraffe). Plus they have African made jewelry and some of those braided bracelet things kids call friendship bracelets among other stuff (the obligatory ‘Christian’ t-shirts, sandals/flip-flops, shell necklaces…). I guess the philosophy of the company is to employ poor little Africans to make this stuff that they sell at a ridiculous mark-up and then they give a percentage of the profits back to the starving African village that made it. I think Go-Fish may even work under a fair-trade policy. If nothing else they keep a few Africans preoccupied until the next meal time roles around when they’ll still probably go hungry or keep little kids from wondering why Mommy and Daddy haven’t come back from the bush yet, and it gives Africans an alternative to do something other than contracting AIDS, so I guess it’s a worthy effort. Evangelical Christianity at it again.
Anyway, my friend wasn’t working so I left.
I walked to the other end of Carol and sat on a bench under a shade tree. I watched a bee buzz around a flower bed as it got something to eat and wondered why God made it so difficult for the African’s to do the same.
Not long after that two elderly women walked out of the Tearoom across the street, a little place they like to gather for tea and crumpets. I imagined them sitting there together, slowly sipping tea and munching on assorted pastries, crumbs falling from the cracks on their wrinkled lips, oblivious to the starving children in Africa. After they came out into the early morning, I watched them make their way down the strip dipping into stores and emerging again a few minutes later with one more shopping bag in their hands than they went in with. Eventually they made their way into the Go-Fish.
I sat there a while long with my bee, fascinated with his seemingly random selection of flowers. I wish I could have had a conversation with him. I would have asked him about his buzzing about and why he chose the red flowers over the purple ones, because they were just as pretty. But the only thing I clearly heard him say was, “buzzzz buzzz buzz.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I didn’t ask; he looked like really busy.
The two elderly women I saw earlier were making there way back towards their car, back towards me. I just sat there. They had crossed the street on the other end and were now on the same side of the street as me. They didn’t go into anymore stores. My bet is that their credit cards maxed out on one of the over priced camonkeys that the African children made. It was funny to watch this sixty something year old woman try to carry four shopping bags and a five foot nothing camonkey down Carol St. It is an image I won’t soon forget.
I sat slouching, legs crossed and arms flung over the back of the bench. When they came within ear shot I hollered, “need a hand?”
I don’t think they heard me, so I waited until they got a bit closer and tried again. This time they heard me. “Oh, yes, please. This is very heavy.” I took the woman’s camonkey from her and followed her and her friend to their pearl white Oldsmobile. I thought about grabbing the camonkey and making a run for it, but figured I’d better not; Perry is a small town. She tried to pop the trunk with her keyless entry, but set off the alarm instead. I thought she was going to have a heart attack. It took her a good minute and a half to turn off the alarm, then she opened the trunk with the key. She moved a folded wheel chair out of the way and showed me where to put her newly acquired, odd-looking piece of art.
“You ladies look like you’ve been busy today,” I offered.
“Oh, yes. We don’t get out very often so when we do we make a day of it. I’m not as young as I use to be, but don’t tell my husband.”
I laughed lightly, trying to figure out what that meant. “Well, ya’ll have a good day and don’t over do it.”
The woman with the camonkey took out her wallet and tried to offer me some money for helping her, which I refused; though I did wonder if she had ever been a customer I served when I worked at the Swanson. She had a familiar smell about her, like talcum powder. I bet she was a red-hatter or a member of the bridge club. I walked back to my bench and watched her reverse and pull forward several times as she tried to get her behemoth Oldsmobile out of the tight parking space (I think old people should drive small cars, like a Corolla or something, not the bulkiest most awkward maneuvering machines money can buy. But what do I know). I smiled to myself and told the bee to be careful, that she might run-over his lunch. He flew away and eventually the two old ladies made it safely onto the street.
I sat there baffled for a few minutes before I got up to leave. I watched as the women drove off into oblivion. I couldn’t stop wondering at the absurdity of it all. The whole thing really had me confused. I just couldn’t reconcile the connection between these old women and the starving kids in Africa who made the camonkey that lay in their trunk.
I went in the Go-Fish store to visit a friend who works there. Go-Fish
is an interesting little store full of different art pieces made by starving persons in Africa. They sell everything from little carved frogs to five foot tall creations of animal combinations such as camonkeys (camel/monkey) and eleraffes (elephant/giraffe). Plus they have African made jewelry and some of those braided bracelet things kids call friendship bracelets among other stuff (the obligatory ‘Christian’ t-shirts, sandals/flip-flops, shell necklaces…). I guess the philosophy of the company is to employ poor little Africans to make this stuff that they sell at a ridiculous mark-up and then they give a percentage of the profits back to the starving African village that made it. I think Go-Fish may even work under a fair-trade policy. If nothing else they keep a few Africans preoccupied until the next meal time roles around when they’ll still probably go hungry or keep little kids from wondering why Mommy and Daddy haven’t come back from the bush yet, and it gives Africans an alternative to do something other than contracting AIDS, so I guess it’s a worthy effort. Evangelical Christianity at it again.Anyway, my friend wasn’t working so I left.
I walked to the other end of Carol and sat on a bench under a shade tree. I watched a bee buzz around a flower bed as it got something to eat and wondered why God made it so difficult for the African’s to do the same.
Not long after that two elderly women walked out of the Tearoom across the street, a little place they like to gather for tea and crumpets. I imagined them sitting there together, slowly sipping tea and munching on assorted pastries, crumbs falling from the cracks on their wrinkled lips, oblivious to the starving children in Africa. After they came out into the early morning, I watched them make their way down the strip dipping into stores and emerging again a few minutes later with one more shopping bag in their hands than they went in with. Eventually they made their way into the Go-Fish.
I sat there a while long with my bee, fascinated with his seemingly random selection of flowers. I wish I could have had a conversation with him. I would have asked him about his buzzing about and why he chose the red flowers over the purple ones, because they were just as pretty. But the only thing I clearly heard him say was, “buzzzz buzzz buzz.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I didn’t ask; he looked like really busy.The two elderly women I saw earlier were making there way back towards their car, back towards me. I just sat there. They had crossed the street on the other end and were now on the same side of the street as me. They didn’t go into anymore stores. My bet is that their credit cards maxed out on one of the over priced camonkeys that the African children made. It was funny to watch this sixty something year old woman try to carry four shopping bags and a five foot nothing camonkey down Carol St. It is an image I won’t soon forget.
I sat slouching, legs crossed and arms flung over the back of the bench. When they came within ear shot I hollered, “need a hand?”
I don’t think they heard me, so I waited until they got a bit closer and tried again. This time they heard me. “Oh, yes, please. This is very heavy.” I took the woman’s camonkey from her and followed her and her friend to their pearl white Oldsmobile. I thought about grabbing the camonkey and making a run for it, but figured I’d better not; Perry is a small town. She tried to pop the trunk with her keyless entry, but set off the alarm instead. I thought she was going to have a heart attack. It took her a good minute and a half to turn off the alarm, then she opened the trunk with the key. She moved a folded wheel chair out of the way and showed me where to put her newly acquired, odd-looking piece of art.
“You ladies look like you’ve been busy today,” I offered.
“Oh, yes. We don’t get out very often so when we do we make a day of it. I’m not as young as I use to be, but don’t tell my husband.”
I laughed lightly, trying to figure out what that meant. “Well, ya’ll have a good day and don’t over do it.”
The woman with the camonkey took out her wallet and tried to offer me some money for helping her, which I refused; though I did wonder if she had ever been a customer I served when I worked at the Swanson. She had a familiar smell about her, like talcum powder. I bet she was a red-hatter or a member of the bridge club. I walked back to my bench and watched her reverse and pull forward several times as she tried to get her behemoth Oldsmobile out of the tight parking space (I think old people should drive small cars, like a Corolla or something, not the bulkiest most awkward maneuvering machines money can buy. But what do I know). I smiled to myself and told the bee to be careful, that she might run-over his lunch. He flew away and eventually the two old ladies made it safely onto the street.
I sat there baffled for a few minutes before I got up to leave. I watched as the women drove off into oblivion. I couldn’t stop wondering at the absurdity of it all. The whole thing really had me confused. I just couldn’t reconcile the connection between these old women and the starving kids in Africa who made the camonkey that lay in their trunk.
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