The northwest corner of Coweta County has a few pockets that are holding on to the rural south. Along highway 70, near where the Chattahoochee River kisses the Carroll County line, you’ll find one such place.

Marion and I are on a mission to find treasure. Just south of Andrews Chapel UMC and a little north of the Roscoe General Store there’s a mailbox and an open pasture gate. We turn in and make our way up the hill through the green fescue fields.

The little sign next to the mailbox says: Estate Sale.

My heart is in a tug-o-war whenever I come to a place like this. The heartrate goes up a little bit imagining all the pearls of junk I might find. Rummaging and digging through buckets and shelves inside a shop or barn is right up there with trolling the lake edge trying to hook the big one.

You never know what you’ll find.

At the same time, it makes my heart sad because, for somebody, I know that this day marks the end of an era. I am all too familiar with the routine. Hard decisions are made. A few personal items are kept. But the rest of it goes up for sale.

I couldn’t bring myself to be present for the one we had for my own homeplace.

We park off the edge of the drive next to a row of big cedar trees. The house is off to the left. To the right are a few large pecan trees. The shop and barn and other outbuildings are beyond them. We walk that direction.

“Good morning, folks. Come on in.”

The son is greeting people as they arrive, encouraging everyone to look around, go inside, and to intrude on his dad’s world anywhere they want. He’s a bigger man than I.

I ask him about the story. “Tell me about this place.”

His dad bought the property in the early 70s. Twenty-six acres. Not a working farm, but a place where a man could enjoy fresh air and country living.

“It’s been a great place to grow up,” he says. “My sister lives in the house these days.”

I can tell that his dad never had any livestock. No fences. No chutes for loading or pinch gates for handling. No pens behind the barn. An old Massey sits under the shed.

But I can also tell that the man behind the craft and beauty of this place was no slouch. The shop building and barn are well kept. The outbuilding across the way stands straight. There’s even an underground storm shelter built into the hillside. All 26 acres are clean, open fields that have been kept mown.

“Yeah,” the son says. “Dad built all these buildings by himself. He lifted the walls by himself with the forks on the tractor. He tore down an old 1800s building on Sewell Mill Road and used the beams to put up his shop and barn. He just found stuff and made it work. And if he couldn’t find it, he refused to buy it. He just made one. And if it broke, he fixed it.”

His shop bares evidence of that truth. He was a welder and a pipefitter. He had one drill press set up for metal and one for wood. Machines and tools for every discipline. Lawn mower repairs. Tractor motor rebuilds. Plumbing. Metal cutting. Making jigs for doing stuff by himself. There’s a toaster on the shelf that looks like it’s waiting its turn.

From up toward the house, I hear what sounds like a side-by-side cart start up.

“Good Lord,” the son says. “Dad’s coming down here.”

“Your dad is still living?”

“Yea. He lives here with my sister now. Mom has Alzheimer’s and is in the nursing home.”

Chills run down my spine. I know this scenario all too well.

“We couldn’t get the lawn mower to crank, and he heard about it. I’m sure he’s coming down to get it fixed. He’s 91 and just had hernia surgery two weeks ago. He don’t need to be down here.”

“Must be tough for him.” I can’t even imagine.

“Yea. He came down yesterday pointing out things he might want to keep. Stuff that hadn’t moved in 20 years. Then he dug his old mechanic maintenance books out of the dumpster because he thought somebody might need them.”

An estate sale after you’re gone is one thing. But having people crawl all over your stuff while you’re still around is a whole other thing. I wanted to meet him and hide at the same time.

At 91, he moves pretty good. He steps out of the side-by-side. Six-foot, I’d say. Ball cap. No glasses. A plain white T-shirt, tucked in. Green work pants. The belt is too long, and the end hangs off to the side. The arm skin is loose, but the eyes are a bright blue.

I hold out my hand and he takes it.

“It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” I give him my name.

“Marlin Stoltz,” he says. “Marlin, like the fish.”

Marlin worked for Eastern Airlines forever as a mechanic, right up until they shut it down. Which probably accounts for his mad-handy-skills at fixing stuff. He heated and bent wrenches to make them work where he needed them. He retired back in ’88.

He and I talked for a while. I’m glad he was eager to engage. The only deficiency I could detect, if you can call it that, is that he was hard of hearing. But his mind was sharp. His spirit was upbeat. He reminded me of how much I like and respect the old guys who know stuff that most of us have forgotten.

“Where you go to church?” he asked. He was trying to figure out who I was.

“These days,” he said, “I go to church with Jimmy Swaggert. I’m Pentecostal and I love the way that man preaches. He’s no spring chicken, ya know.”

Marlin is the last of eleven brothers and sisters. He is a living testimony to the perseverance and ingenuity of the old south. I’m inspired to have met him.

His son put a battery from the shop in the back of the cart, and Mr. Marlin rode off to the barn to do his magic with the mower.

We spent several hours digging through his stuff. Nothing big, but we gathered up a couple of old Atlanta Dairy milk crates full of treasures. One for me and one for Marion. The son-in-law helped us figure up how much we owed.

“Well, let me think about it,” he said. He was looking at my crate. “How’s fifty bucks sound to you?”

I was good with that.

Then he looked over Marion’s crate. She talked with him about how much she enjoyed Mr. Marlin. They laughed at a few of his stories.

Mind you, her crate is the same size as mine. Similar contents. There’s essentially no difference between her treasures and mine.

“I think $25 will do it,” he says.

Mercy! I should have been a woman with a nice smile.

Godspeed Mr. Marlin.