October at Tricklestone's

     October at Tricklestone’s

        Tricklestone’s Antiques was in a building so old it was an antique itself. The store had been in my dad’s family for three generations, starting with my great-great-grandpa Merritt Tricklestone. It began as a general store, but at some point the family decided to have a go at selling old stuff.

        The place loomed at the higher end of First Street in Cadyville, a small sleepy town nestled beside the deep Cady River in the Cascade foothills. Spring and summer tourists kept the place afloat. Not as many ventured there in the short days of winter, a remote place surrounded by miles of thick forest.

The wide-planked floors inside Tricklestone’s squeaked and groaned like human voices.  They were cranky, those floors, complaining of summer’s heat, winter’s cold snaps, and of the stubborn mist that hung over the river and tried to get inside.

Sometimes, if a customer stayed too long and never bought anything, the floors would pop like firecrackers.  Other times they would welcome you inside, offering gentle encouragements to entice you all the way to the back room where a portrait of old Merritt still watched over things carefully. The real draw to that back room was the full-length bedroom mirror. The mirror that told you things you were afraid to tell yourself, or so people said.

My October visits started the year when I was five. My dad, Art, and step-mom, Janet, wanted to go away to celebrate their second wedding anniversary and the only hitch was what to do with me. Being an anxious kid, I found myself getting caught up in the dilemma of what would happen to Leslie? That is to say, me.

Then my dad came up with a brainstorm.

“Let’s send him up north to stay with my aunt Vi at Trickletone’s,” he said one evening over dinner. “She invites us up to see her every Christmas holiday and every summer and we never go.” 

“You mean Violet?” Janet said. “The one who dresses like a hippie and lives in some old junk shop?”

“Antiques,” corrected my dad.

 “Right,” Janet’s eyebrows shot up. “Could she handle a small boy on her own though?”

“Aunt Vi isn’t alone. She has cousin Oscar,” my dad was already headed for our phone. “There’s nothing she would like better than to see her great-nephew.”

That’s how it started. A yearly tradition that began with me staring up at those tall windows with our family name written in swirly gold lettering. Then Janet and I blowing inside the store with a chilling gust of October air. Aunt Vi would greet Janet with a gentle pat on the shoulder, then bend down and give me a bone crunching embrace. 

Janet never stayed long, just enough time to apologize that my dad wasn’t with her because he had to work, then inquire how she and Oscar were doing, and wasn’t the window display just lovely? Then she was out the door, the gust of air reversing itself like a vacuum as it sucked her away.

My aunt Vi would watch as Janet made her way to the car, then turn and give me a smile so wide it seemed to go beyond her cheeks. She clapped her hands together.

“I just can’t believe you’re finally here,” she said, giving me another hug with a grip like iron.

My aunt Vi was a tall woman with vivid red and silver hair that sprung up around her face in all different lengths. She would have been in her sixties then, a graceful woman who favored flowing, flowery skirts and blouses. She was a bit like a moving garden.  

Just behind her my cousin Oscar would come forward with a gentle hello. He was much shorter and wider than aunt Vi, his shyness an obvious thing. Oscar’s head was round and his skin was pale and smooth, a fringe of blonde hair above each ear. His smile, like my aunt’s, held nothing back.

The thing is, they were just so very happy to see me, and that’s an impossible thing to resist when you’re young. 

“Now, Leslie,” I was told on that first visit. “You’re to call me aunt Vi, none of this great-aunt nonsense. Look at me, I’m not so great,” she waved her long arms up and down, her sleeves billowing like waves. I can see her still, stepping forward and back on those creaky floors, prompting them to sing me a welcome song. 

That was the world I stepped into every October, and in my young years I accepted everything that happened at Tricklestone’s as logical and natural. The conversational floors, the way my aunt Vi would talk as if the store itself was a person, and of course that room in the back that faced the misty river, the room with the standing mirror that dated back to the late 1890’s. Merritt’s mirror, folks called it. The strange mirror that supposedly told people things they needed to know.  

In those first minutes of being hugged and made over, I took a visual inventory of the place. It was important to me that Tricklestone’s stayed the same.  The books on wooden shelves, masses of old china, dinner sets and ornamental glass. Treasures were everywhere. An elegant mantel clock with roman numerals on its face, or carved bookends in the shape of owl heads, a wicker rocker wide enough to seat two people. 

  Something always happened to me at Tricklestone’s. I can best describe it as the presence of old things wrapping around me like a blanket. The air that twinkled of dust motes, time stretching out like warm taffy. 

        Then Oscar would say, “Give me that suitcase, kiddo,” grabbing my small tan case with the plastic handle.  Then the three of us would climb the long staircase to the second floor, twenty-seven steps to a small landing, then another steep seven stairs to get to the top. By the time we were halfway up I could smell the pot roast.

The upstairs at Trickelstone’s was a special thrill. It was like stepping into a cozy living room that had plopped down someplace it didn’t expect to be.  A massive mahogany dining room table was the centerpiece of this living space. It glowed a rich reddish brown and it was so long that only one end of it was needed for meals. Beyond that was a tiny kitchen area with a stove, sink, refrigerator and beyond that, a makeshift bathroom.  

The huge table was set for three, and we each had our own chair. None matched. They were chosen for comfort, not looks.

Cousin Oscar would be the first to plop down, eager as I was to dig into that pot roast, cooked with tiny chopped onions on top and covered with ketchup. Aunt Vi would sit at the head of the table, leaning forward to make sure she heard everything cousin Oscar and I had to say. 

It’s hard for me even now to describe the safe and warm feeling of being with aunt Vi and cousin Oscar at Tricklestone’s, eating at that table set with old, heavy silver. Knowing that in the corner not far from where I sat, I would eventually sleep in a special nook they had created for me nestled between two huge armoires.  My own twin bed next to a nightstand with a glowing amber lamp.

It was over dinner when cousin Oscar relaxed into his true self. Part boy, part genius, is how my dad described him one time.  “The thing about cousin Oscar is that his brain “glossed right over life’s non-essentials and focused entirely on important things.” It was true that cousin Oscar was always researching an important topic, one he would dive into whole hog.  

Aunt Vi called these interests his “excitements.” One visit I remember he was obsessed with measuring the silt deposits in the Cady River that kept the salmon from migrating; another time he was sure the lumberyard was leaking toxins into the river.

Cousin Oscar and I had a special research project that was just for my visits. We called it “Unnatural Phenomenon on First Street, Cadyville,” and we kept our findings in a leather journal with exact locations, dates, and times. This research focused on changes we spotted in the giant mural downtown. Painted some fifty years earlier, it was a huge aerial map, showing roads, the lumber yard, river, and all the shops in great detail. Cousin Oscar and I had studied it at length, making notes of things that appeared and disappeared in the giant picture.

“So, Leslie, I have some updates on our mural I need to show you,” cousin Oscar might say over dinner, slapping the table. First thing in the morning.”

My visit was up and running.

That next day we’d make ourselves cups of Folgers instant coffee, grab our journal, and head out. We sat on a bench that faced the giant mural, looking at it closely as and sipped our drinks.

“Now,” cousin Oscar nudged me. “Remember that cluster of trees on the bottom over there?”

I would nod. I did remember.

“Well, take a look. Something new there.” I saw it right away. A little black dog with a red collar, a trace of white on his tail. That dog hadn’t been there the year before.

The thing is, Oscar would be as excited as I was. I can picture him even now, wearing that nubbly old sweater where he’d already spilled a bit of coffee, his old brown corduroy pants that had worn smooth. He’d point at the mural with a look of wonder on his face that matched mine.

Most afternoons I spent in the store with aunt Vi. She used the quiet months of autumn to get caught up on inventory, but she always had jobs for me that were exactly right in those years, like sorting old metal toys, or helping fold endless stacks of faded linens.

        I liked being in the front of the store because it was the best place to watch people come and go. I was especially eager to watch the folks who came to look in the old mirror in the back room. 

        One afternoon aunt Vi was sorting jewelry and I was dusting tea cups when a girl came in who was so thin she could have been a Halloween skeleton. Her jeans hung on her loosely, and I stared at her skinny arms that jutted out her t-shirt sleeves.  

        “Lil! Nice to see you dear,” aunt Vi always gave a warm welcome to those who looked like they needed it. “Coming to see the mirror? Look, I do think those beads haven been waiting for you, dear,” she held up a long string of jet beads. Lil hesitated before letting aunt Vi drape them over her head, then she walked to the back room. I heard my aunt sigh. The floors were silent.

        It seemed quite a while before Lil came out of the mirror room. As she left, she paused to give aunt Vi a half hug. “I’m not sure what I saw in there today, Vi.”

        “Well, that’s the mirror for you,” my aunt said.

        “It’s a funny thing, Vi, these beads,” Lil added. “I think they smell like licorice, Vi. Is that possible?”

        “Black licorice, oh my favorite,” breathed aunt Vi. “You love black licorice, too, don’t you Leslie?” She knew I hated black licorice. I only liked red.

“Mine too,” said Lil, smiling at me. “I used to love it when I was little. I could eat some right now,” she said, her eyes opening wide.

Aunt Vi was scrounging around under the register area. “Well, darn it, I thought I – yes, here’s some here. You take this,” she said, handing off a little package to Lil, who was eating it as she left.

In those days I mostly remember women who came through the store for a peek in grandpa’s mirror. They were of all ages and sizes.  I liked it best when someone looking sad or lost came out with a spring in their step and you could tell they were cheered up. That wasn’t always the case, of course. Sometimes women came out wiping away tears, their heads down, or with a vacant look in their eyes.

Men came and went too. I remember those who strutted in with arrogant faces, striding in like they owned the place; only to leave with that jauntiness deserting them, a confused look on their faces.

I asked my aunt many times about the mirror. “Does it tell the future? Is that why people want to look?”

“To see their fate, you mean? Wouldn’t that be nice,” my aunt would say. “No mirror can show you that, Leslie, you need to understand. Fate is resourceful. You won’t find it in a looking glass, you have to see it in yourself.”

        Naturally I looked in the mirror many times as a young boy. It was always a big let-down. I only saw an exact replica of my ordinary boy-self, a kid wearing jeans and a t-shirt, one with light brown hair that was impossible to comb down and a delicate face covered with freckles.       

        But I did enjoy watching the book customers, they were a different sort, it seemed to me. People who would spend hours looking over our shelves. The books in Tricklestone’s had an aura all their own.

One customer stands out from those years. An elderly man, who looked as old as the store itself. He was a bit unsteady on his feet and his faded charcoal suit was shiny with wear. The man was drawn to a shelf that held our most collectible books, some of them first editions.

He reached for a volume, and I could see he had a tremor in his right hand. He ended up using both hands to gently pull it out.

He stood there holding it for the longest time. “I can say something about this book, but I guess you know it too,” he finally spoke to aunt Vi, who had come up beside him.

“Oh yes. Swiss Family Robinson,” she gave the man that wonderful smile she only used when she was truly delighted. “That book was in one family for a long time I believe.”

“It was. It was, I know,” said the man. “I’m thinking it was read too many times to count.” He gently opened the cover and smelled pages. “A book that has been loved like this one is a treasure, I tell you.” He held the book to his chest.  

“If you feel that way, then this book is meant to be with you,” said aunt Vi, gently. “I’m sorry, it is a bit expensive though. Not a first edition but – special – as you say, just the same. It’s $25.”

“You can’t buy a book like this at any price,” said the man, reaching for his skinny wallet. He took his time pulling out the bills, his head down, holding back emotion.

As I say, it was the sort of thing that happened a lot at Tricklestone’s.

My visits there as a young boy were always over much too soon. Those days when I saw Tricklestone’s as it truly was. A place filled with curiosity and energy, a place where old things went because they were still important. And needed.

Then I got older.

Naturally the day would come when I arrived at Tricklestone’s with a jaundiced eye, a critical attitude. I cringe now, remembering visits in my teens when I was openly skeptical of all that I’d loved about the place, and how I sometimes ignored my aunt Vi and cousin Oscar.

In those years I found myself avoiding the mirror. I dreaded what I might see reflected back. Something I already knew deep inside, but at age fourteen not ready to face. Aunt Vi and cousin Oscar didn’t press me or act offended, no matter how difficult I was.

Then came a momentous day when I was ready for the mirror. By that time, I was a senior in college, rebellious and reckless both. Aunt Vi was with me though, when I looked in the mirror that day and saw the true me. A feminine Leslie, but one who was ready to face a life of my choosing.  I found some of that bravery in the Merritt’s old mirror, but I had to look hard through my tears.

As hard as I cried then, I cried harder when I heard from my dad that spring that cousin Oscar had died of an aneurism. He went quietly, in his sleep.

A handful of years later, I would lose my aunt Vi as well. A massive stroke, but she didn’t suffer.

It came as no surprise that she had left Tricklestone’s to me, her thirty-year-old nephew with a masters in English literature. I quit my job as a barista and within weeks was settled into the store. I swear the floors were glad to see me.

That was twenty years ago.

These days Cadyville has become even more popular in the spring and summer; a destination town for antiques shoppers. I’ve made a few improvements, but the back room is still there if you ever want to swing by. Old Merritt and his mirror would be happy to see you. I can’t speak for the cranky floors.

But on early October mornings, I sometimes go into the back room with my coffee, looking at the heavy mist on the river.

If I feel like it, I take a peek in the Merritt mirror.  Mostly I have to say I look happy.