It’s a Thursday morning. Marion and I are having our coffee on the back porch at my house. We are discussing our plans for the day, but mostly we are scrolling through all the important pictures, notifications, and highly sensitive content on one of the “Chatty” sites she likes.

“Listen to this,” she says to me.

She catches me up on the train that blocked the intersection at Weldon Road for two hours. We learn about the power outage that occurred out near Rico. There’s an update on the kids from Northgate High who are recovering from a bad wreck several weeks back. Fresh vegetables are coming in at the Veggie Patch.

I remember when my mom and dad would read to each other from the AJC. Both of them sitting in “their” chairs in the den. Archie Bunker on the tube. Watching and reading the paper or a magazine at the same time.

“Sounds like they’re gonna expand the airport again,” Dad would say.

“Listen to this recipe for making a German Chocolate Cake,” Mama would say. “It sounds really good.”

They never read in solitude. They might read to themselves for a while, but they would always pause and say something to the other one about what they were reading. It was their way of keeping up with what’s going on and being a part of it together.

I’m looking out the window watching a deer walking along down by the creek when Marion gasps out loud.

“What?” I’m thinking that maybe she has a cramp in her leg.

“The FOCUS Thrift Store is having a porch sale starting today. Everything is 50% off.”

“I thought you hurt yourself.”

“Huh?”

“You gasped for air.”

“I know. We need to go check this out. They open at 10 am”

So, now I know the plan for at least part of our day.

The FOCUS group is a local ministry that helps provide clothes, food, and physical assistance to families in need. They have two thrift stores in Hamilton. One is for furniture and household goods. The other is for clothes. All the proceeds go toward fulfilling their mission.

On the way out the door I grab a bowl that I’ve had in my kitchen for years. I’ve never used it. A bowl isn’t much, but I always feel like if I’m going there to buy something, I should take something to leave for the next sale. I’ve taken chairs and larger furniture at other times because I know it all goes to a good cause.

When we got to town, we pulled up the back street that takes us to the gravel parking area behind the store. The store is actually an old home on Main Street. Wood siding painted white with black shutters. A wrap around porch. The old concrete steps up to the porch have now been replaced with an ADA acceptable wheelchair ramp.

I backed the truck in under the shade of an old pecan tree. It’s a few minutes past 10 am. There’s only two other cars, so we know that we’ll get a first look at all the items for sale. No treasure hunter in his or her right mind wants to look through stuff that’s already been picked over by the buzzards.

Marion is on a mission of her own. There are two older gentlemen in Palmetto that are moving into a retirement cottage together. Both widowed. Both friends. Both needing to partner up in order to be able to afford a place to live. A lot of folks have been generous to help them furnish the cottage.

“Look at this lamp,” Marion says. “It’s got a push button on the base. That’ll be a lot easier for the boys than having to reach under the shade and turn a switch.”

This is how she thinks when she shops. She also gets them a set of large spoons, a measuring cup, and some plates for the kitchen. And for herself a set of wheel chocks for her smoker. She’s such a practical woman.

For me, my finds were tools. You’d think I’d have everything a fella needs but somehow, I find stuff that I don’t have and convince myself that if I had it, I could find a use for it one day.

I get to the checkout counter first. My total is under 50 bucks. This sounds like a lot, but I had some Craftsman tools, a new bullet level, a cordless Dremel with a case full of attachments, and a pitchfork. Not bad.

I take my stuff out to the truck and come back to find Marion still wandering through the house. The stuff on the inside is not discounted and she’s carrying a quilt folded over one arm.

“Did you buy another quilt?” I ask.

To the best of my accounting, this one should make about 78 quilts that she owns. I helped her count them a few weeks ago. One of her many purposes on this earth is to save all the old handmade quilts she can find.

“I did not,” she says. Long pause. “I haven’t paid for it yet.”

We get up to the counter and the two ladies ringing up Marion’s purchases are commenting on how well she’s done. They know that I’ve already checked out and they have that look, wondering why I’m back and why I’m standing around.

“Oh, that’s my husband,” Marion says. “We’re newlyweds.”

Oh, Mercy.

This begins the telling of our entire life story. How we met at a funeral. How long we’ve been married. How we have two houses. How we have the same table coasters. How we’ve got the same pillows on our porch couches. And how she pays for her stuff and I pay for mine.

Their eyes are squinting. Their heads are nodding. I can tell that their brain circuits are working overtime to absorb all this information. And the funny thing is, they seem to be genuinely interested in every little detail.

Meanwhile, another lady steps up to the counter in the middle of our story. She is uncomfortably close enough that her shoulder is touching my left arm. I can tell she has something urgent on her mind.

“There’s a set of hand trucks on the porch,” she says. “The tag says $35 FIRM. I’m guessing they’re not half-price?”

She turns to me and asks my opinion about the price. She tells us all that she’s been trying to get her husband to move some things in the garage for over a year and that she’s tired of waiting, and how she really needs those hand trucks.

Marion looks at her. “Just do it,” she says. “Get the hand trucks and get it done.”

“Before I married him,” she’s pointing at me, “I told him that I don’t need no stinking man.”

Suddenly, I realize that I’m standing in the midst of four women as the lone representative of the male species. All eyes on me. The lady next to me is already mad at her man and her look tells me I’m guilty by association.

“I guess you know where you stand,” she says to me.

“Yes ma’am, I do.”