christmas in the big house

Not much new. The local poet still had his usual spot under the stairs, handing out free poems to promote his books. Think he's actually more interested in getting folks to read his free poems than selling any collected volumes. Naturally, he handed me one he wrote about a poacher and a game warden. Basically a humorous tale about a deer poacher claiming to be hunting elephants.

So I told him the true story about the guy in town getting a ticket for operating a snow machine without a live preserver.

Perhaps it'll be in poem form next year.

The gals from the local historical society were in their usual spot, hawking their calendars of county history photos and trivia, so I took the opportunity to mention our outfit's desire to find a new home for the signature wall on our winter range.

They're interested. Quite interested, and may even have money coming from the legislature to help.

Which is good news.

The publisher of the local paper overheard our conversation, and asked about getting a story out on the wall. Which is also good news, if any of the options we're pursuing don't pan out.

But right now, no, we don't want any collectors knowing about our historic treasure sitting out in the desert.

The dark, chilly north side of the cell block, however, was less than half full.

The few vendors I knew and visited with had a good day, but clearly not the crowds of early years for this bazaar. Partly due to the hourly drawings over thr radio for money prizes held at businesses in town (where you must be present at one of the stores to win).

Which is why eldest son spent the day in his favorite coffee shop, with all our drawing tickets. And no, we didn't win.

Well, at least, he claims we didn't win anything...

The cell block had the usual Christmas decorations.

Stockings were hung for several inmates, identified by name and number. Naturally, each was filled with lumps of coal.

And yes, as you can tell by the name on this one, for quite a few years this place was co-ed.

I admit feeling a little ambivalent about this tree.

It's kinda hard to feel joyous when you know a man was murdered at the bottom of those steps on the left. But then, perhaps that is a symbol of this whole affair, making something new, happy and exciting out of a place of former misery.

As I returned from the cafeteria, having enjoyed my lukewarm, spicy bowl of chili, I found the director of this whole place asking the wife where I was.

Since I'm not a volunteer, I figured I must be in trouble, instead of in demand.

I was right.

Wife bought us each a raffle ticket as we came in the front door, and lo and behold, mine won.

Since the point of these raffles was to draw more shoppers in to the bazaar, and we were here anyway, the director was almost more than feigning her snippishness.

Then I had to go find the vendor responsible for my prize, which turned out to be the local newspaper.

Publisher was gone. They ran out of papers, and he had run back to the office to get more. (Yeah, that's our publisher. He does the errands while the paid help stays warm and cozy inside. Nice guy.) But the gal at their table had no idea what my prize was supposed to be.

So, I went and found the Director, told her my vendor had skipped out on me.

"They what!!!"

Man, it's fun messing with people in a small town.

I heard someone else got a similar rise out of her later, when they reported a vendor with one of the coveted corner tables had left shortly after lunch, rather than staying to three o'clock as they were supposed to.

"Well, she sold all her stuff," reported the Director's husband.

What was she supposed to do? Stay and keep her chair warm?

And yeah, we had all noticed how quickly her wreaths were selling. Pretty work, all natural evergreens. Don't know what she was charging for 'em, but they went fast.

Aaanyway, the publisher later ran me down, and handed me my door prize. A nice ceramic mug printed with the paper's new masthead (filled with chocolates), and not one, but two pair of woolen gloves with the paper's name on them.

Wonderful gloves, with gripper nubbins all over the hand. One pair went immediately to the wife, who had not ten minutes before been complaining about her cold fingers back in the cantina.

I left soon after, returning when they were all well into clean-up. Just in time to help eldest son put away tables and chairs. And, just like last year, everything was stored, cleaned, swept and locked except for one vendor. The same three gals that were slow packing up last year, and kept the Director and her family (and us) there until almost five o'clock. The same three women that hold everything up every year.

Kinda understandable. They have a lot of merchandise (enough to fill four or five tables), bring their own display racks that have to be cleared off and folded, and keep all their stuff organized in almost 20 plastic tubs of various sizes.

Now, vendors are responsible for setting up and taking down their own stalls. And the staff of the historic site are wary of helping anyone, lest all the vendors come to expect help. Or these ladies might plan on staff help every year. So by four o'clock they were all back in the cantina, waiting to go home.

But I ain't staff. Nor one of the site's volunteers, like the wife.

I can help and not set any precedent.

I realize it's bragging, but with me carrying most of their tubs, tables and racks through the cell block, past the guard house and visitor cells, through the warden's office and out through the heavy wooden and iron door onto the sandstone steps...

We had them out by 4:20.

My Christmas gift to the Director and her family.

Now first thing to catch my eye upon entering the cell block before noon was a bunch of badges on the table for the local historical site. These were cast replicas of bona fide badges used in the past in our community. My attention ended up on one which was hard to believe had once been real. But the gal behind the table, and the affidavit in the box, assured me it was true.

I had to go tell the wife.

And we agreed it was cool, but not worth spending money on.

Until I won the door prize. Then I felt I was entitled, and promptly bought my very own...

Really.