Village Market At Shelton Vineyards.
BP Aunt Bea and Me
Money talks but it can’t sing, nor dance nor walk but walk on out with me it did after wanting desperately to be spent in this cutesie attachment market to the BP anchor.
The green varnish upon the westerly barnish structure in poedunk USA stood out like no other I’d seen in my north south (vice versa) travels, leaving me wanting to explore the wares they peddled.
Greeted with a Mayberry welcome sign hung above the door and bottles of red wine one foot in and I thought I’ve reached gas station Shangri La. Pleasantville by all outward appearances right here in west, West Virginia or was it Dobson, northern North Carolina? — I can almost smell the aroma of baked apples and peaches and butter — they’re Aunt Bee’s pies cooling on the sill, partially covered with a white quilted napkin.
Then — Poooof…
Empty inside, nobody shopping nor sitting for a bite — maybe its location — it’s maybe their way, but the chill of cool interest in answering a question is leaving me lonely and frostbitten still.
Counter woman didn’t come to the register as she sneered a bit, furrowed her brow in my direction prior to begrudgingly departing her deep lean chat with a cow poke chewing a wad of Copenhagen the size of a shot class & using the ‘leave a penny take a penny’ tray as a spitoon.
A classy move all the way. So much promise and add another letdown to my life to be. Pish Posh on them.