4) Fountain Pennies
On special days when my mother felt we needed some culture, she would drive Kylie and I to Duncan’s Mills, a town fifteen minutes away, inland from the ocean. Jenner was small and quiet, with neighbors that waved and plenty of sea. It lacked however, everything else that a town might have. There was no restaurant, no art, and no sidewalks even. Duncan’s Mills could hardly be called a cultured town either, but it was the best my mother could do if she didn’t want to spend the day driving.
Riding there, Kylie and I used straws and toilet paper to launch spitballs at passing cars. Like little banshees we giggled and giggled, as we made faces and punched each other. My mother laughed quietly, with her sunglasses on.
Duncan’s Mills was small and misty because of the hills around it. Like a cup they kept the watery clouds low over our heads. The buildings were short, and relatively new, except for the general store that looked ancient in every way. As Kylie and I stepped through the door, a small bell tinkled above us in welcome. The shopkeeper was much less welcoming as he glowered at us over the counter. He seemed to blend in with the aged wood and deep smell of mildew. He was a salty man with peppered whiskers, the corners of his eyes puckered from straining, and his posture was bent from years of unpacking crates.
The floors were made of a dark brown wood that creaked with each step, betraying our whereabouts to the watchful gaze of the near-sighted shopkeeper. There were racks of strange fishing lures, all of them shimmering and squishy between curious fingers. There were glass jars on dusty shelves filled with many-colored candies, greens and blues, deep reds, and chocolaty browns all coated with loose sugar.
Timidly, I would hand my dollar to Kylie who would be a man and pass it to the grimacing, grumbling, shopkeeper and casually ask for two sour-ropes.
As the tinkling bell wished us well, we raced past the line of art and antique galleries to the fountain in the back garden. There we would suck on the bright candies and turn our mouths inky colors as we fished out rusting coins from the fountain when no one was looking.
Riding there, Kylie and I used straws and toilet paper to launch spitballs at passing cars. Like little banshees we giggled and giggled, as we made faces and punched each other. My mother laughed quietly, with her sunglasses on.
Duncan’s Mills was small and misty because of the hills around it. Like a cup they kept the watery clouds low over our heads. The buildings were short, and relatively new, except for the general store that looked ancient in every way. As Kylie and I stepped through the door, a small bell tinkled above us in welcome. The shopkeeper was much less welcoming as he glowered at us over the counter. He seemed to blend in with the aged wood and deep smell of mildew. He was a salty man with peppered whiskers, the corners of his eyes puckered from straining, and his posture was bent from years of unpacking crates.
The floors were made of a dark brown wood that creaked with each step, betraying our whereabouts to the watchful gaze of the near-sighted shopkeeper. There were racks of strange fishing lures, all of them shimmering and squishy between curious fingers. There were glass jars on dusty shelves filled with many-colored candies, greens and blues, deep reds, and chocolaty browns all coated with loose sugar.
Timidly, I would hand my dollar to Kylie who would be a man and pass it to the grimacing, grumbling, shopkeeper and casually ask for two sour-ropes.
As the tinkling bell wished us well, we raced past the line of art and antique galleries to the fountain in the back garden. There we would suck on the bright candies and turn our mouths inky colors as we fished out rusting coins from the fountain when no one was looking.
posted by Integrity at 11:58 AM
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