threadbare wicker chairs, one plow, two hoes, a tub

threadbare wicker chairs, one plow, two hoes, a tub of topless Mason jars, and a winterized doghouse, go by the block. Still in the rain, the crowd follows the auctioneer across the lawn, appearing to devour each auctioned item before it like a hungry vacuum cleaner. Inside the house, the kitchen is crowded with strangers, and the dishes are scattered over all the counters. The upstairs furniture has been dragged down to the front porch, from where a fine view of the flaming bills can be seen, without charge. Photographs of a boy in uniform (which war?) adoms the mantle. A woman in a high-necked wedding gown poses with a gentleman suitably attired in hearty moustache and boiled shirt, in their wedding portrait atop the yellow-toothed piano. Couch, chairs, and end tables are jostled together on the old rug for the last time. The women have excitedly congregated around a magnificent “what-not” that is tater than a man, and solidly carved. Its shelves and height are enough to display all manner of china treasures. It is such a beauty, that, alas, a stout man in a vest and bowler hat sails his bids far above the heads of the disappointed women. As we watch the “What-not” disappear from view, someone sniffs -dealer, no doubt!

The drizzle has turned to a fine mist as you drive home after paying the tally for an oval braided rug, a ruffled rocking chair, a broken butter chum, the aforementioned barrel, and two crocks, slightly cracked.

Suddenly, we see a covey of quail meandering along under a nearly naked black walnut tree. In an instant they have taken flight and vanish into the brush. A distant peak has caught a few wisps of mist, holding down the cloud with trees for tent stakes. Cornfields are now such close-cropped stubble that even crows will soon have to carry knapsacks to stay alive, because November comes to everything - people, houses and cawking crows - in due season.