I like strange places. I like when those strange places are close to home. And I like when my friends see those same strange places and insist that we finally go inside. The other weekend, Cindy, Maggie and I were having a random day of doing things like checking out the potential of a 550-square-foot country home (negative potential, btw) and helping neighbors load a truckload of walnuts (thanks, guys). After, we went out for brick-oven pizza and then stopped at the new found-art gallery, where a woman covered in flowing layers and long necklaces was sitting outside selling her painting and mixed media collaborations. “Make an offer, make an offer,” she insisted. I wanted to tell her that making an offer is one of the things I hate doing more than anything and that I wished she would have just put a little yellow sticker on the back with a price. $20? $200. How could I dare guess? So I went inside, without ever making an offer. I went inside and browsed shelves of mallards and walls covered in wonderful, folksy, soulful art while a woman begged for me to try a glass of her winery’s wine.
Despite the guilt I felt over not ever making an offer on that woman’s colorful painting and not taking the glass of wine because it just seemed to sunny of a day for a glass of red, I loved the gallery and layers of paint on the canvases. I’m glad that places like this can still open, especially in the middle of a small town that people pass through on their way to more important places.