A Doll with Wavy Red Hair

Each week Gary goes to the flea market hoping to sell a few items. When Gary returns home I ask him how he's done. Some days he says he did pretty good, other days he says it wasn't worth going. Today he made $6 but the booth cost him $12. What keeps Gary taking items to sell at the flea markets week after week are the people he meets. I can't wait for Gary to get home to tell me about the man, the woman, the child, the couple, or the family he met that day. There's a beautiful story contained in every person and I crave hearing those stories. The stories about my fellow man, about the human struggle he relays to me each day. There's a kind of companionship in knowing there are others who are the same as oneself. Other's who experience and feel the same things, who struggle the same struggles, people we feel a kinship with.

I told Gary he should write a book about all these people but Gary said he can't write. Gary's talents lie in talking to the people. Somehow Gary has the ability to get folks to feel free enough to tell their story to him. He in turn comes home and tells me the oral history of the day. I in turn wonder how I can do justice to their stories.

Across from Gary today was a family of four, a mother, a father, and two developmentally challenged girls. I might add the girls were adults. The family didn't sell anything all day long, not a thing. They were there all day sitting in the hot sun and keeping a stiff upper lip so to speak. Anyway, the guy next to them didn't sell anything all day long either, some days are like that. Usually towards the end of the month. Folks have run out of their monthly income by that time. During the day one of the girls took a liking to a doll the guy next to them had for sale. She cuddled and hugged that doll all day long. Gary said the doll was about two feet tall and had long wavy red hair. At the end of the day the guy who didn't sell anything went up to the parents and said he wanted their daughter to have the doll. The daughter was ecstatic.

When Gary came home and told me this story, I cried. I cried at the kindness and beauty of mankind. Gary said he asked the girl what she was going to name the doll. She said she didn't know yet, she'd wait till she brought the doll home. She said she'd see how the doll got along with her other dolls and then she'd know her name. The mother told Gary her daughter had lots of dolls, maybe too many.

Week after week Gary tells me about the people he meets. I wish, I only wish I could somehow help them all, but unable and failing that, I hope to be able to tell their story. I was going to call this story, A Story Waiting to be Told. But maybe that's the title to a book, Stories Waiting to be Told, and this is but one short story within that book. I have other's; Gary has others. Should I tell them here? Maybe a publisher will discover one and offer me a book deal. Ha. For now, Gary will keep going to the flea market because he likes it, and I will keep writing because I like it. Thanks for reading and for all your comments.