The Someday Shoppe

By Angie Gaddy

It was just as it had been the last time I saw it. Dark, desolate and in dire need of repair. Still uninhabited and still drawing me like a moth to the flame. After having seen Luke at the caf, I needed a moment to clear my head and think of where I had seen that face. I put the kickstand down in front of the old brick entrance and strolled to the front steps, which were in disrepair, to sit as if I owned the place, looking out across the street where the houses on all sides stood straight and prominent, with more beauty than functionality, I was certain. I quit my thoughts of Luke in exchange for the moment, needing to visualize this house on canvas.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475948349

Angie Gaddy

Angie Gaddy holds an MS in Exercise and Sport Science from The University of Memphis. She is a Mississippian by birth and a Memphian at heart. Mother of three and grandmother of six, she resides with her husband in Tarpon Springs, Florida where she continues to create, write, and dream.

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Prologue

What was that incessant beeping? I turned to my nightstand to hit the snooze button on the alarm. What a headache! And my leg felt numb and achy. The beeping stopped and I drifted back into the slumber from which I was so rudely interrupted.

Moments later I heard talking. What’s the deal? Can’t a girl get some peace and quiet around here? Apparently not! I opened my eyes. Well, I thought I opened my eyes. I was fully aware of the voices in my room. Was it a party—a party for me to which I was not invited? Why are they whispering? I felt like Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias. There they were, apparently, for I could hear them, but I couldn’t see them—Sydney, Coach Beau, Luke and Mac, talking about me like I was not there. Okay, time to get up.

It was then I realized, as the strong scent of antiseptic threatened to gag me, the beeping sound was coming from the cart beside my bed. It was not the alarm on my nightstand. And I was not at home.

I’m actually hooked up to those machines, I mused. Come on, Andi, think! What are you doing here? How did you get here? What happened last? For the life of me I couldn’t remember. I tried to speak but nothing came out. They were talking to me and I could hear and understand them. Why can’t they hear me? Hey, guys, help a girl out! At least throw me a bone!

Luke leaned down toward me. I could smell his cologne. Finally!

Come on, Andi, he said, hang in there; we’re all here for you. He kissed me on the forehead.

I need my girl back, Andi, Coach Beau whispered in my ear, I’ll be back in the morning. Now sleep well. I love you.

You know something this small won’t keep you down, Andi. Set it up my friend, and we’ll take it down like we did at the beach. Mac’s tears were falling on my face.

Andi, I’ll be right over here if you need anything. I’m not leaving until you are with me. Sydney kissed my cheek and squeezed my hand—I think. Still no feeling on the outside, but my mind was clearly aware of my surroundings.

The door squeaked opened then closed with a muffled thud and a final click. The only sound left was Sydney rustling at my side, making her nest as close as possible. The lamp flickered off. The beeping sound drummed in my ears. Sleep came and I was light years away; a piecrust was floating somewhere out in space. Obviously I was dreaming. Dreams are like piecrusts. Easily made, easily broken. Like the days of our lives. Living and breathing and dreaming. First the breath of life, then a mark is made on earth by one small human being, followed by dreams to accomplish, or perhaps sometimes not. Without dreams life is mundane at best, repetitive, with nothing beyond the realm of imagination to fill in the spaces of time. Times when reflections, on the front porch with a good cup of coffee or hot tea and a warm blanket for the cool night air or early morning breeze, lead to places that only the heart can comprehend. Times when desire outweighs reality.

Subconsciously, thoughts of the past took control. A small green briefcase, once my father’s, filled with beads acquired by green and quality stamps, and always a cup of hot tea. I remembered the day I awoke from the mundane succession of life and found this treasure. One that changed me. One that spelled the importance of having at least one of my dreams become reality. Serendipity of sorts that filled me with the longing to create, to do something that, even in my wildest dreams, I could not have imagined. A set of dreams mixed with reality that defied all cynical boundaries with a climax worthy to be dramatized on the stage of life and with never an ending. Rescuing prince and all.

One

Sitting on the wrap-around porch of what the neighbors affectionately called the blue house, I touched the floor and set the creaky old swing in motion. It was a sturdy one, like my beautiful Victorian home that has stood three stories tall under the age-old oaks of Mid-town Memphis since 1910. I turned my aimlessly wandering mind to consider what the day would hold, what the week would bring, even what direction my life was taking. My little green briefcase rested on the edge of the railing, begging for a piece of my time. A spare minute or two to create a piece of jewelry or something fun to wear or give away to a friend. It was drawing me ever closer, with the inclination to use my hands like I had always done—to make something of value. A necklace here, a bracelet there, anything that would add beauty and life to the various embellishments waiting patiently to become an inordinately superfluous beauty affixed permanently in the setting of my choice.

My mind drifted in directions that were uncontrollable. I watched as a fly aimlessly attempted to free itself from behind the window screen on the other side of the swing. I was fixated on his persistence to try and try again to penetrate the screen. He knew that freedom awaited him on the other side, and in order to embrace it, he had to overcome the obstacle that was blocking him. I did not count his futile attempts, yet they must have scored among the high end and close to a hundred. Each time, he tumbled down, shook his head a bit, and then repeated the task.

Much to my chagrin, I realized I was as restless as that fly, wishing to be bound as one with the image of gratification on the other side of the screen. I sipped from my warm cup, knowing I was supposed to be doing something, but nothing was propelling me in an identifiable direction. This was not the first time, and lately it had begun to be a pattern. The blue jays quarreled as they flitted about in the bushes that framed the porch railing, the fly buzzed incessantly, and the slightest breeze chilled me through the robe and blanket I had wrapped around me.

My recollections, or was it still my dream, continued? I felt a swaying sensation, sat with my back braced against the swing for a minute and pondered where on earth the time had gone. When I was a kid, days lasted so long and months dragged on, and years just dwindled away taking a full twelve months. Now, growing older, I had noticed the years were blowing by with cyclonic force, quickly falling away like leaves from the maple trees that turn a brilliant red and pile up at the corners of the house. I stopped my busy mind for the briefest of moments now fixating on the fact that I was not getting any younger, wondered what I had done of essence; and where were all those years I had spent trying to figure out the details of my life, making big dreams, then following through with at least the ones that weren’t piecrusts.

I relaxed, allowing the medication to do its job. I started with dreams from the past in search of new ones for the present. You know the ones in the piecrust setting, metaphorically speaking, of course—easily made, easily broken.

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I’m Andi. Andi O’Malley to be more specific. That’s Andi with an i. I was born Andrea. Daddy wanted to name me Andrea and Momma wanted to name me Angela, so the compromise came in the form of Andrea and shortened to Andi from the moment I arrived on the scene. They could tell that Andrea was a bit formal for this child that came barreling into the world. I’ve always received mail addressed to Mr. Andi O’Malley. That is not acceptable. Of course, it does reduce the mail sorting time. Anyway, I’m in a state of reality check and wondering where I’ve been and what it is exactly that I’m going to do for the remainder of my swiftly passing life, of which, for the most part, I have been identified by many as the quintessential dreamer.

Two

I remember waking up early on an August morning. The pale yellow sunlight streaming through my window forced me out of bed and down the stairs. I poured myself a cup of coffee and walked out onto the front porch. The heat of the day hadn’t burned the dew off, and I could smell something sweet in the air like honeysuckle and I could feel the moisture from the chair under my arms. I closed my eyes, leaned back, and took a deep breath. When I opened them, I glanced over to see a shimmering spider web connecting the old chipped columns to the banister, stared at it for a long moment, sat down in front of it and shifted until the light, the web, and I were just so. What I mean is—it was glowing. I stared at it and each strand, the whole of it, was made of diamond. What I’m trying to say is, imagine a web not etched from a diamond but strung with diamonds. If you’ve never looked at a spider web in the morning with dew on it, then you might not understand what I’m saying. But that doesn’t matter right now. I stared at it for a long time and at first it looked a little like chaos, but that’s not true. Every line that made up every tiny rectangle had some purpose. God spoke to me that morning. The spider web was my life, thin strands of diamonds all connected and pulling at one another. I couldn’t see the purpose at first until I looked in the corners and there tethered to the wall holding it all together and giving it form—was God.

Now trapped in my own head and sometimes lost in thought, I remember that web. Look there. That is the day I was born. And over there… that one is the day I graduated from high school. And here, I can see the lines of age on my face; and there, the silver shows up in my hair. I don’t think of my life as a straight line any more, but an intricate web connected and held together by my Heavenly Father.

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I arrived in this world on a cold February morning in the Mississippi Delta. At the time, my father was a small town preacher boy and his bride was his accomplished pianist and a published writer on Bible translation. The perfect couple struggled like all young couples with two babies. Since Daddy was an ordained Southern Baptist preacher, we moved from place to place as he was called. We never ventured out of Dixie, lived in five of the southern states, some more than once, and in the third grade, I went to three different schools.

It wasn’t easy to up and move, or even to know at such a young age it wasn’t a good idea to get a close friend, because when it came time to go, I had to leave that friend behind. I despised change back then; still do. So I withdrew and allowed myself to hold close only to the things I could take with me when the time came. One such tangible belonging was my green briefcase filled with beads of all sorts and a tiny loom, upon which I made beautiful things. I considered it splendid to have inherited the creative gene, especially in times when I felt the need to check out of reality. Creating something was like taking a mild sedative, for it was in times like these that my hands moved to the beat of my heart and the result was something wonderful, something masterful, something material. I was in control and, as far as I was concerned, no one else could have done it better.

Where was I? Oh yes, the many states in which I lived, the dreaded move, and indelible memories surrounding those moves, the particularly detestable one being Salem, Virginia, when at the ripe age of eight I was about to experience my first cab ride.

It was Thursday, and we were to start classes at our new school on Monday, barely enough time to catch our breath after the move. By mid-afternoon snow began to blow across our front porch, and by Friday, the radio said ten inches. Ten inches of snow! It was piled up everywhere. It snowed hard all weekend. Sydney and I romped and played in the white stuff until freezing temperatures sent us scurrying inside for warmth, but only long enough to shed wet gloves, socks, shoes and toboggans. We laid our wet garments on a rack by the hearth, warmed ourselves, donned a fresh set of woolens, and then did it all over again for hours. All weekend. We made snow angels and a snowman, fought with balls of snow, and slid down the hills of Salem on garbage can tops, for the moment, forgetting about school.

When Monday rolled around, we were terrified at the thought of traveling on that much snow. Surely it would be unsafe. But unlike other places we’d lived, Virginia’s cities and towns apparently didn’t shut down for snow.

Sydney and I watched the plows, behind which the sand trucks dumped and the workers shoveled mounds of dirty snow to the sides of the streets then spread the sand. It was entertaining. I looked past the dirty, mud-sloshed cars to a winter wonderland as I sat in the tiny kitchen eating Cap’n Crunch cereal, listening to the radio crackling out a version of Leaving on a Jet Plane. The trees were iced over and branches hung low with the weight of frozen icicles. The roofs of the old houses looked like cakes smeared with vanilla frosting and smoke billowed from the chimneys of early risers. The sun shone bright but the temperature stayed so cold that with each breath came little puffs of white.

Sydney and I were in third grade, the second of three schools we would attend that year. The other children had been in for months, which made us the new kids. I hated being the new kid. Everyone would be staring at us like we had horns or three eyes.

Daddy had an early meeting at the church and Momma couldn’t drive on the snow and ice. Our only option for getting to school was a taxi. So Momma made the call. I despised this day already, before I even stepped out onto the icy sidewalk that would lead me to the dreaded yellow cab. Starting a new school where friendships were already sealed and the new kid was inevitably singled out was the hardest part. However, the cab arrived, Sydney and I said our goodbyes to Momma and took each step from the porch with caution, slipping and sliding our way to the waiting driver. Sydney held tight to the wrought iron railing; I left her to fend for herself when I slid gracefully down the sidewalk to the curb and the waiting ride. As brave as that sounded, I stopped abruptly when I saw the driver and waited for Sydney to make the first move. She jumped into the back seat and grabbed me by my unzipped jacket and dangling mittens.

The old Virginia cab driver was the spitting image of how I envisioned a hatchet murderer. I recalled having nightmares for years thinking about him and that dreadful ride in the yellow cab. He only had a few teeth, and the ones he did have were rotting like a peach with a bad bruise. The smell of stale cigars gagged me and I didn’t touch anything for fear of catching a disease. It was apparent by the smell that he hadn’t had a shower in God only knew how long. My guess was when Kennedy was president. The stench reminded me of the dumpster outside the school cafeteria overflowing with week-old spaghetti, corn, milk and mystery meat hamburgers.

From where I sat I could see trash carelessly tossed on the front seat and floor. Hamburger and candy wrappers, some leftover French fries verging on a petrified artifact, and a plethora of cups that had been used for tobacco dipping. From the smell, there was definitely a rotted hamburger or a live chicken in one of the bags.

I closed the rusty door and looked back toward the house where Momma stood waving, thought about blowing warm breath on the window and writing bye to her, but I didn’t want to touch any more than I had to in the rickety old cab. The radio crackled a talk show that was barely audible above the clanking motor and gravelly dispatch radio. Each time the dispatcher screeched out orders, I grabbed Sydney, and buried my face in her coat. The ride was endless and for once in my life, I couldn’t wait to get to school. The deranged driver took every iced-over, slippery, snow-covered back road in Salem. In the distance, I was sure the Shenandoah Mountains were a beautiful sight; however, from the back seat and in fast forward, my stomach told me I was not riding the garbage can top, but the roller coaster from Hades, and to keep my head down.

We slid to the front door of the school ten minutes late. Great! Now I was the new kid, the late kid, and I was sure to throw up at sometime during the day. This was what I deplored about moving—starting over, especially in the middle of what was already fine. With each new beginning, Sydney led the way. Literally and metaphorically.

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My eternal memory chip paused briefly as I sensed, more than heard, Sydney moving quietly to adjust her position on the hospital rollaway bed, and then I slipped back into days gone by. Sydney and I are fraternal twins. And as she stressed throughout our lifetime, she was the oldest by two and a half minutes. She thought those few moments in time gave her the authority of two and a half years. A lot can happen in the span of two and a half minutes—an entire song, eating a banana before game time, three fouls in a basketball game, a touchdown, or even a long red light. But Sydney liked to refer to such a time frame as birth order. Maybe that’s because as a firstborn, she possessed the assertive traits of a natural leader, a perfectionist with drive, conventional, in control. She wanted things her way and would do anything to get it. A proverbial choleric according to the temperament charts, contrary to my way of thinking and acting, but we were always hand in hand from day one. Everything was cut and dried with Sydney. If she had the facts, she could make the decisions without getting emotionally involved. Some people thought she was arrogant, but I knew she was a genuine person, just strong-willed, self-reliant, opinionated. Such a list as this required an ending like, and a partridge in a pear tree!

Being fraternal twins gave us enough individuality to be recognized for who we were. Momma and Daddy never treated us as a unit, but as our own person. It was a bit sadistic, however, to give us each a name that ended in the same sound. I wondered sometimes if Momma didn’t feel the same way. She inevitably beckoned with a preface of both names until she reached the one of intention. Syd, And—Andi! For a while, I thought my name was Sydand. I would keep that in mind should I ever have children of my own.

In my world, I was a different child altogether from Sydney. Different, not bad, but not particularly good all the time either. I always harmonized with the characteristics of birth order children as well as Sydney. As the second born child, I was independent (sometimes to a fault), the peacemaker (always to a fault), moody (yet not without reason, of course), and happy, always happy.

Growing up, my world was small and revolved around a few of my favorite pastimes that gave me a reason to smile and be happy. I surrounded myself with things that kept me in my comfortable place. Unlike Sydney’s cookie cutter life, from day one, I perfected my own special talents. While she collected shoes, purses, make-up and various and sundry—shall we say girlie things, I collected everything—everything eclectic, that is. Bottle caps, bazooka gum comics, Coke can tabs, Popsicle sticks, and my very favorite—gum wrappers. Sydney despised this about me with a passion. To her way of thinking, I was a pack rat.

Oh yes, gum wrappers filled my time so resourcefully. My little green briefcase became a locker room for the ephemeral gems that I squeezed in around my beads. Tiny little Vs overtook the beloved collection. As Daddy preached, I would quietly fold gum wrappers into small pieces and add them to my never ending gum wrapper chain. Laugh if you will, but I have actually seen the world’s longest gum wrapper chain at the Guinness World Record Museum in Gatlinburg!

Whenever I had money from babysitting or raking leaves, I would go to the McLemore gas station and convenience store before church to buy Fruit Stripe gum. The colorful wrappers made the most beautiful additions to my chain. Of course, the majority of my creation was green. My least favorite color, but Momma’s favorite gum, was Doublemint at the time. It never ceased to amaze me that she always had a fresh pack of it in her ‘Mary Poppins’ bag. When we sat next to her during church, she shared her Doublemint, each of us receiving a mere half piece. No wonder it was an endless pack!

Oh, don’t get me wrong, it all added up. So much so, that each night I stacked the day’s chewed piece of gum on my headboard. I thought it was a form of art, but when Daddy came upstairs to our rooms for a housekeeping check, the art went into the trash can. And to think, I could have been the world’s most renowned gum chain artist. I have never heard of one but I would have been an original, that’s for sure. I thought there must be something out there that hadn’t been documented. I have always desired to have my name on something unique with the proclamation that I was an artist, leaving a legacy of my own.

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The memories faded as true sleep came. I closed my thoughts knowing that my life was constantly changing and bringing with it new challenges much like the passing phase of gum wrapper chains. Frequent moves to a different way of life kept new challenges a constant. At an early age, Daddy taught Sydney and me Philippians 4:11 which says, Not that I speak in respect of want: for I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. Little did he or we, for that matter, know how many states that would be! So we learned and unlearned contentment many times over, at least in respect to states. Literally and metaphorically.

Three

Time was obviously passing, though I hadn’t a hint of how much—minutes, hours, light years. A song was there, in my mind, but I couldn’t get it to my lips. Evie. It was Evie Tournquist and she was singing, Live for Jesus, that’s what matters. God had painted every day of my past with beautiful colors, soft hues. His brush, never dry, was still in His hand. He would see me through whatever was going on in the beeping, the blood pressure cuff that was presently squeezing my arm, the tubes that dangled from my body parts. I felt His presence. A one-sided conversation was going on; I could hear Sydney questioning every procedure as if she were grading clinicals.

Enough, I thought. I find much more comfort in drifting back to my childhood.

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Nothing was more gratifying than my little green briefcase filled with beads and gum wrapper chains. I made big plans with this little collection of mine. I sat for hours stringing beads and making necklaces, bracelets and rings. One of my most extravagant beading projects was to be one of life’s