Dead Man’s Pots
I went to get a document notarized the other day and met a woman who knew my great-grandmother. Making polite conversation she asked where I lived. When I told her, she started talking about Ms. Cammack and Ms. Pruett who used to live there. She knew them because her folks ran the grocery store just down the street in town, and that’s where they shopped. It’s the first time since I moved to my dad’s hometown to ever meet someone who knew his grandmother. Surreal.
She also told me about the movie theater and the drive-in and the hospital and the second grocery store and the Chevy dealership. And now that I know what buildings they were in, I have a new picture of my current hometown. I’m going to follow up with her and my cousin who lives in Sequin, and see if I can’t paint in more detail. It seems like fun. I think it will be a great way to make all those pictures on my wall come alive.
Of course, this will require follow up, and I’m notoriously bad about that. Once upon a time I wanted to sit down with my wife and identify all the pots and pitchers she had on display so that I’d know why they were important to her. I never did it. Now, I have no idea, and that saddens me. I know the story behind a couple of them, but only a few. But maybe that’s for the best. After all, the previous owners are long gone as are the people who knew them and what do the current generations get out of holding a dead man’s pot? Not much, I suspect.