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The sign read: “Flee Market”. Who could resist?
Certainly not me. As a photographer seeking material for my new assignment,
who was I to turn away from a chance to see the hidden part of Tennessee?
Memphis, my traveling cat, and I followed the farm road, sans all sign of
paving until we came to its very end.
There it was: a ramshackle place with a lean-to at the back of the wooden
house.
Things were propped, stacked, hanging, tilted and homemade - second hand
clothes, honey, relish, a photographer’s jacket, books, pots and much more.
He emerged from somewhere, the old man, wearing bib overalls and a face as
creased as a map. Ocean blue eyes peered from the landscape of life lines.
Turns out he is a Church of Christ pastor for poor folks. He takes no pay
for his services. His rosy-cheeked wife popped out from somewhere a minute
or two later with a cheerful smile.
“This young lady wants to take our picture, dear”, he announced.
“Ooh! I haven’t got my teeth in” said Mrs. Meadows, reaching deep into the
pocket of her flowing fifties-style skirt. Out came the dentures and into
her mouth.
"Okay, I'm ready now", she said nestling close to her proud husband.
My heart felt all warm and gooey so I gave them both a big hug, bought honey
and the photographer’s jacket and left with the promise to return.
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