Ringgold, Georgia – The moon is still up as we roll north on the interstate above Atlanta. Large semis are chugging along. Tailgaters are impatient. But we are on a mission. Today we are junking.

Marion’s phone is smart enough to alert her to things like estate sales, yard sales, junk sales, boiled peanut sales, and good deals on cleaning supplies. She is the most in-the-know person I know.

“Hey,” she says. “There’s a huge junk sale in Ringgold this Friday.”

I like junk shopping. Together, we are both treasure hunters at heart.

She goes on. “I’m thinking that if we leave early, we can just make a day of it.”

The air is cool. I’m standing at the entrance to the Callaway Cotton Gin, founded 1879. This massive barn-like structure came alive at a time when mule drawn wagons would roll into town loaded down with the gold of the south. The gin is still visible but sits motionless in the upper loft like a silent dinosaur. Hand hewn oak beams stand as a testament to the age of an agricultural industry that is gone in Georgia.

My dad used to talk about riding the cotton wagon with his dad down to the gin in Luella. When I was a kid there were remnants in our barn of that time when cotton was king. Hand woven cotton baskets. Combs for pulling cotton. Huge burlap sacks made for picking.

Today, the Callaway Cotton Gin is a haven for rusty relics and good old-fashioned junk. I take off my sunglasses as I walk inside. My blood pressure is rising. I can feel the adrenalin. My eyes are not as good as they used to be, but I’m scanning the walls, the tables, and the piles of history in every corner.

The dust is thick, and I’m ready to get dirty.

I have watched enough episodes of American Pickers to feel like I know what I’m doing. I take in the entire space first. Old screen doors with Colonial Bread push bars across the mid-section. An old GE oscillating fan on the top shelf to my right. The opposite wall has a long table against it that is covered in old hand tools.

The thing is, I don’t really know what I’m looking for. Junk shopping is not like regular shopping. A regular shopping trip usually includes a list. If I go to Lowe’s or Walmart or the grocery store, I write down what I need so I won’t forget. I know what I’m after and I go looking for specific items. Once I get the list, I’m done.

Here, there is no list. It’s impossible to know what you might find. I am here to find something, anything, maybe just one thing that I didn’t know I needed. That’s all it will take for it to be a good day.

I have no idea what it will be. I have no idea how much it will cost. I won’t even know what it is until I see it. And once I see it, I might buy it. And even if I buy it, I may not have any idea what I’ll do with it once I get it home.

But that’s the heart of junking.

I’m digging through the table of tools. Old hammers. Wooden block planes. I have a weakness for block planes, but I pass because I already own more than I need. Ten minutes into the first dig my hands are black with grime. My shop rag comes out of my back pocket.

I make my way to the front counter. There’s always “a guy” in a place like this in case you have questions. He’s usually sitting in a cane chair whittling on a stick with a Buck knife.

“You got somewhere I could plug in the old GE oscillating fan?”

“Yes sir.”

I could use another fan in my shop. I loved the old oscillating fans mounted on the walls at the church where I grew up. The quiet hum. The wire cage moving back and forth during a hot Sunday morning sermon.

I plug it in. I cross my fingers, but when I turn the switch, nothing happens. No hum. The blades never move.

This is how it goes. Some of the junk you find is actually junk.

We’ve seen about all we need to see here, so we walk over to the old Feed & Seed warehouse next door. More junk.

Here’s where I finally spot something. This is the moment when old memories collide with new discoveries. There, leaning against a pile of wood, is a 44” saw blade from an old sawmill.

I never knew my granddaddy on the Chappell side. I only knew of him through the stories my dad would tell. Dad called him Papa. The one way he always described him was this, “Papa farmed in the growing season and ran a sawmill in the winter.”

I know that our barn was built from the oak and pine that D’Daddy sawmilled from our farm. Whenever we hauled cows to the sale barn, we would go to the old sawmill site and fill the truck bed with sawdust to give the cows better footing. The sawdust also made it easier to clean out the manure.

So, I thought of D’Daddy. I figured this huge saw blade would be out of my price range. I’m not a big spender on junk. But I had to look.

It’s covered in rust. The center shaft hole is split on one side. But the price tag says $30. I couldn’t believe it.

I make my way inside the Feed & Seed and ask, “Who owns the old sawmill blade outside?”

A young man says he’ll find out and leaves the counter. An older woman walks up. She tells me that the saw has been in their family for a long time. Her son brought it up here just yesterday. It was taking up space in his garage.

I purse my lips and offer her $25.

She says, “Would you do $28?”

I say, “I feel better about $25.”

She makes a phone call. Her son I suppose. And we make the deal for $25.

An old guy rolling a 44” saw blade across the grass looks dangerous. People are getting out of my way. I roll it across the gravel, across the highway, and over the curb to where the truck is parked.

We load it into the back and Marion says to me, “I can’t believe how much we think alike. I wasn’t going to give this to you today, but now I have to.”

She had been shopping on her own inside the old gin without me knowing it. She hands me a bag. I open it up. Inside is a rusty 14” saw blade with a barn painted on it.

“I can’t believe you bought that saw blade after I bought this one for you,” she said.

“I know.” Crazy. Two rusty saw blades in one day.

“I’ll hang both of ’em on the wall inside my shop,” I told her. “But mine is a lot bigger than yours.”

We’re just junkies.