The Sunday Wrap Up Post #swup #Instagram #SundayMorning #SundayFunday (+ some #SaturdayShares!)

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✵‿➹⁀🖤‿➹⁀✵‿➹⁀🖤‿➹⁀✵
NEW RELEASE
✵‿➹⁀🖤‿➹⁀✵‿➹⁀🖤‿➹⁀✵” A TIME APART ~ By J Morgan WoodallIt would be safe to say it was little more than a shack. Rough-hewn, weather-beaten, plankboard siding that had once been an aqua-ish blue sort of color gave it a ragged, but sturdy look. Old manila rope had been glued into the cracks between the planks to give the place a nautical feel. A rusty tin roof that had seen far too many rainstorms was once again enduring another assault from Mother Nature.I picked up my phone to check the radar, wanting to see just how much longer the storm was going to last. I muttered a curse when I saw that there was no signal at all. The storm must’ve knocked out a tower or something.
The sign above the door was made from a piece of driftwood. In hand-painted and uneven letters, the words “Sadie’s Seashell Emporium & Other Groovy Gifts” were spelled out, surrounded by equally crude daisies and peace signs. The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a canary yellow, ’67 VW Microbus.Great! These people are old sixties hippie relics. The last thing I wanted to do was hear another boring history lesson about what a fucking trip Woodstock was from some geriatric fossil with long, gray stringy hair and John Lennon glasses, or listen to Jerry Garcia playing over the store intercom. Nope! I’m outta here!

I reached for the key to turn the ignition. It was about that time that another earth-shattering bolt of lightning struck just behind me. That was all it took. Fuck it! Hippies or no hippies! Summer of Love! Give peace a chance! I didn’t give a shit! I was getting out of this ungodly phenomenon.
I was out and running for the door before I could reconsider. The heavy rain felt like buckets of water being poured on me from on high. It was a cold, bone-shivering rain that soaked quickly through your clothes and sat upon your skin like pneumonia.

The parking lot, by now, was a small lake, and as I ran, my feet kicked up dirty water, splashing my bare legs and khaki cargo shorts. It seemed like forever before I reached the heavy metal door with the round porthole-style window. It groaned in protest as I yanked it open and literally threw myself across the threshold. The weight of the door slammed itself shut behind me with a resounding BAM! A little bell above it tinkled almost anticlimactically.
Once inside, I shook the chill from me the best I could as I was now completely and utterly soaked from head to toe.

Overhead, the rain pounded the old tin roof incessantly, a low, steady roar, as if reminding me what was waiting on me when I left again. Briskly, I rubbed my hands up and down the opposite arm, trying to dry and warm them at the same time. As I did, I took my first look at my surroundings.

If I’d thought that the outside’s appearance might be somewhat deceiving, I was to be quickly jolted back to reality. The interior was not only small, but in my opinion, somewhat claustrophobic. An old antique soft-drink cooler, the kind that had the sliding doors on top, the bottle opener on the front and used chilled water to keep the drinks cold, was the first thing that greeted you when you walked in. Above it was an old rotary dial AM radio, set to what I figured was the local classic rock station, as “Nights in White Satin” wafted from its lone speaker. There were only a couple of aisles of merchandise, most of which I quickly wrote off as cheap trinkets: snow globes, magnets, shot glasses, and ash trays. You know, the stuff you buy at the end of the vacation after you’ve blown all your money on expensive meals, trips to overpriced amusement parks and nightcaps at tourist bars. Most had “Florida” or “Sugary Sands” scripted across them with a flourish. In a congested corner, what appeared to be an airbrush booth looked like it hadn’t been used in ages. A few shirts still stretched across boards in various stages of completion, waiting to be finished one day, but I hazarded a guess that day was never coming. On a shelf in front of it, a few sand dollars had been painted in the art deco colors that always seemed to symbolize Florida: teal, sky blue, and sunshine orange. Large conch shells and other assorted, colorful ones were also available for purchase with a sign above saying, “Buy two and you got the third for free!”

At first, I thought the place might be totally deserted, as no one seemed to be minding the pitiful little store. But after a second or two, I heard someone in the back rummaging around.
“Be with you in a sec!” A female voice called out through a door shrouded with a beaded curtain.
“Take your time!” I yelled back. After all, it wasn’t like I was planning on buying any of this shit. I just wanted to dry off and wait out this bitch of a storm.

A few seconds later I heard a toilet flush followed by the sound of squeaky hinges as, somewhere in the back, a door opened. In the meantime, I had actually found some little wooden pelicans, which appeared to have been hand-carved and painted. Being as my hobby was woodworking, I was fascinated at the handiwork of the artist, the detail, the care and the obvious time put into each one. I liked that each one was different, each had its own unique little quirk that made it unique. In spite of myself, I might have found something I might actually have to have.

So engrossed in the pelicans, I barely heard the rustle of beads behind me.
“Sorry about that!” The woman’s voice was right behind me now. “You know how it is with coffee. Drink a cup … piss out two.”
“I do indeed,” I answered absentmindedly.
“So, is there anything I can help you with today?”
“Yes, in fact you can,” I replied as I turned, the pelican I had deemed my favorite in my hand. “Tell me about these. The craftsmanship is exquisite”

I froze in mid-sentence, my words sticking in my throat as I came to lay eyes on the woman that had embodied the voice. I found myself speechless … utterly speechless. Not since high school had I found myself so instantly enraptured by such beauty. All I could do was stand and stare like a mute, slack-jawed and at a loss for words.

#JMorganWoodall
J Morgan Woodall
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