JOY ALONG THE WAY: DETOUR TO A COUNTRY AUCTION

Through the little corridor of low-growing, colorful sumac and sassafras I wended my way northwestward to the hills of home. A fog, at tree-top level, made a ceiling. The just-rising sun, shining behind me, made the brightest of passageways, picture book pretty. At moments I thought, facetiously, I was going the wrong way -- not toward the light at the end of the tunnel.

In a way, I was traveling backward to old times, old places. But old places change. I got lost in the cul-de-sacs of subdivision after subdivision in an old familiar town I could once have navigated in the dark.

In retrospect I believe those bulgy subdivisions were laid out like a many petaled daisy. It was hard to find the stem.

After I had rounded the "petals of many daisy bouquets," I stopped three times to ask for directions to a certain street and got three different answers. The fourth helpful person, riding alongside on a bicycle, stopped as I pulled over to again ask. "Right straight ahead," he said, smiling broadly, glad to be of help. Most people just love to give directions.

I went right straight ahead and soon came to a configuration like unto the peace sign, neither branching street being of the name I was seeking. Although politics aren't on my front burner, I lean toward the right, so, nothing else availing, I leaned toward the right. Also, down that street I saw a wonderful display of mums and wanted a closer look. They made me feel a little better about the concrete daisies.

Without going further into my meanderings, which were time consuming and frightfully fretful, suffice to say that I arrived at my sister's new home. I knew the way there, of course, had it stenciled on my mind because it was a new place -- turn right at the stoplight, go a piece and turn left by the little yellow building that has MEAT lettered on the side, on down past the storybook white marble house, etc. . . . But the newly learned roadway was closed. Orange barrels and sides cones lit up both sides as far as the eye could see. Slanted striped barricades and "Do not enter" signs made me think they did not want anyone to go that way. Hence I took those less traveled daisy-laid-out roadways.

When Lou met me at her doorway, she greeted me with, "Hi, you're early." I didn't tell her I had started an hour earlier than I said I would. Admitting getting lost when you're young is funny. In later life, it raises eyebrows.

Forthwith we went on to our old childhood church for its Lord's Little Acre Day, an auction to raise money for whatever is needed.

Once again I felt I was traveling backward in time. This is a rural community and folks bring for sale what they have and can spare. I think, in the beginning of this movement, it was proposed to being for sale something that one could produce on an acre or the equivalent thereof.

It did my heart good to hear a hog go up for sale, or half a hog if a whole one was too much. All to be butchered, cut into proper pieces and delivered, of course.

Then came chickens. Buff Orpingtons, to be exact. One, two, three, a dozen? I could imagine some rural housewife putting a dozen eggs under a broody hen last spring and bringing the chickens along for this very day.

The hog and chickens weren't on the scene. I wish they had been. Nor was the cord of firewood, but all sold readily to the auctioneer's singsongy voice. "Five dollars? Five dollars. Five and a half? Five and a half? Five and a half. Now six. Now six, six, and a half? Seven? Seven and a half . . ."

Bushels of turnips, pecks of pears sold quickly. Canned vegetables, pickles, fruits decorated long shelves. I wanted to buy it all.

Next year I'm going to raise something on my partial acre to take to that celebration. Some hanks of dried mint? Dried sage? Some rhizomes of my prettiest irises? Maybe a start of a rose cutting from my Queen Elizabeth?

I won't get lost next year. If the barrels are still there (It did look like a long project), I've got the alternative route stenciled on my mind. Now, if I just don't misplace my mind!

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosely is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.