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A ROAD TO THE PAST

© Bertha Sutliff

I love walking through flea markets, auctions, yard sales and antique shops searching for that one treasure I did not yet own. My favorite pass time is driving the little highways off of the interstate and finding those little signs that read "Antiques" and have an arrow pointing down a narrow dirt lane.

Recently I found myself turning off of Highway 22 in the Northern half of Arkansas, onto a dirt road that seemed to be taking me back into the mountains. After driving for a few miles I finally pulled into the yard of the last house on the road. I immediately knew I had found something that might just pay off.

Scattered about the big red barn and the other outbuildings were iron bedsteads, wash pots, wagon wheels and various other miscellaneous objects unidentifiable without closer inspection. A sign next to the first building said to honk your horn if you were a paying customer, so I did.

In just a minute or two, an elderly man emerged from the back door of the house. He was dressed in overalls and used a cane. He greeted me with a "howdy" and a nod of his head.

I responded with a friendly "hello."

He asked if I was looking for something in particular. I notice the rich drawl of his Arkansas accent.

I told him that I would just like to look around and see what he had. I hoped he didn't mind. I was anxious to see what he had behind the doors of those buildings.

He smiled a crooked country smile and assured me that was what it was all there for. I thanked him and walked out into the yard of the first building trying to take in as much as I could. He followed me at a short distance.

I stopped at the heavy door of the first building. He informed me that he had shelves of glass and pottery in there. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a ring of keys. After selecting the right one he unlocked the door and pulled it back. The darkness ballooned with the sunlight from outside. Dust bunnies danced on the sun's rays. The tottery old man laughed and told me he wasn't much of a housekeeper. I brushed his comment away with a wave of my hand. Like the cobwebs clinging to the corners of the shelves, it was all a part of the enchantment.

I walked through the massive door to discover a treasure cove. Shelves lined the walls of what he told me was his now retired milking parlor. Beautiful colors of amber and greens reflected from the afternoon sun shinning through the one window of the building. I gasped in surprise. Dusty with age, you could still see the beauty of the antique glasses and pitchers, bowls and plates, various odds and ends. An array of baskets hung from the ceiling. Light bulbs on long ceiling wire were suspended over the displays. I could have spent the rest of my life in that building but there were two more to explore.