Failing Eyesight

The warp and weft of the carpet were both wool and the lanolin soothed your hands. We decided to buy it. The saleswoman rolled it up and took it to the front of the store.

When I walked up to the register a few minutes later, Trudy was putting her charge card back into her wallet, and the saleswoman was finalizing the order. I asked Trudy how much we got charged, and she didn't know for sure.

So how much was the carpet? Trudy asked.

Two hundred and eighty dollars, the saleswoman said.

Trudy looked at me with a question mark in her eyes. I scowled (maybe to myself, maybe not) and shook my head.

I thought the tag said $240.00, I responded.

Oh no, the saleswoman said from the other side of the counter. It was $280.00 marked down from $700.00.

I rolled my eyes to myself about the markdown. I saw the markdown but thought the tag said $240.00.

No, it said $280.00, she responded in a confident tone looking directly at me.

The tag said $280.00? I asked as I began to unroll the carpet to look for it.

Oh yes, the saleswoman said, making no attempt to show me.

As it happened, all that remained of the tag on the corner of the carpet was the little plastic tie. The tag was gone. I looked up.

Do you have the tag? I asked.

Yes, she said, making no motion to actually produce it.

May I see it? I asked, thinking I was about to look like a total jerk.

Sure, she said, walking back to the register where she had rung up the transaction. It took her a few moments to find it, and when she did, she walked back and handed the tag to me.

See, $280.00.

I looked down preparing to apologize for my dirty bifocals, and then I did a double take. I held the tag back out to her.

It says $240.00.

She was silent for a moment. The salesman by the other register who had been watching us was also silent. The saleswoman took the tag and looked at it.

So it does, she said with either nervous or embarrassed laughter. My eyesight must be failing me.

Right.

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An afternoon walking tour and shopping trip into Asheville, North Carolina.

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Black Mountain

On our first morning at The Inn, we were treated to Dave's maple eggs (baked in little ceramic ramekins), generous slices of ham, blueberry muffins (with just-crunchy-enough edges at the top), real butter and fresh squeezed juice — a little sweetness and (more importantly) plenty of protein to keep me civil during the day.

After breakfast, we drove out of the woods, down the winding one-lane gravel road, marvelling that the forest seemed to have more color than just the day before. We started our day in Black Mountain.

Black Mountain is a small artsy/shoppy town in the mountains just outside Asheville. It has places to eat, fancy and plain. There's a hardware store which caters to the tourists in the front, with the real stuff in the back. It has shops with crafts and shops with local art. That wasn't what we really came to the Blue Ridge Mountains for (Trudy might disagree), but I confess it was quite pleasant.

After a while, however, I noticed something was making me uncomfortable. Folks that go to an artsy/shoppy place like Black Mountain in the middle of October in the middle of the day in the middle of the week ... how shall I say this? ... have their working years well behind them. Most of the people we saw were elderly women with name tags hanging from their necks, gathered in small groups with confused looks on their faces, trying to decide where to go next. And every once in a while, there was a elderly man sitting forlornly on a bench outside a shop.

Mind you, it's not that I have anything against confused women or forlorn men (I expect to join that club soon enough), but it just felt like a science fiction movie. It was as if we were in an amusement park for elderly retirees. No kids. No young adults. No families. Just a homogenous bunch of old folks milling around ... and the two of us.

Call me callous. Call me a fool. But it just gave me the willies. I felt better when we were done with lunch and on the road to Asheville.

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Black Mountain, North Carolina

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