When I was a young girl, I would routinely accompany my mother on her favourite weekend excursion, cruising the neighbourhood garage sales. I never understood her fascination with navigating through someone else’s junk - piles of used, rejected goods, none understood to be of any importance until they caught my mother’s fascinated eye. I was a reluctant sidekick and found the Saturday morning ritual a tedious, dragging affair for which noon could never come soon enough. That was the agreed upon marker for which she’d drop everything and take me home for my well earned lunch. And earn it I did. As my mother perused strangers wares, she'd pile, precariously into my arms faded tablecloths and decorative dishes, ill-formed statues and nameless nik-naks, every so often removing an item to replace it with another more treasured find. I’d follow her around impatiently, roll my eyes and implore her to stop, repeating over and over again that we’d found plenty enough.One particular morning - I think I was about 10 or 11 - I recall it was a very hot day, I was feeling lazy and cantankerous and could not bear the thought of trawling driveways in such heat. My mother would have nothing of my lack of ambition – after all, it was a "moving" garage sale (that's the best kind) and so I went, a long-faced laggard, following far behind. We came upon a small white sided house with a narrow driveway leading to a tiny garage in the back. Dispirited, I sat down on a nearby chair and waited for my mother to complete her regular inspection of goods.
The homeowner was a tiny British woman, a widower I assumed, and she struck a pale white figure against the blinding hot sun – white skin, white hair, white clothes – I had to squint to see her. There was a neatness about her appearance and it reflected in the orderly way she had displayed her goods. I understood from my mother she was closing shop to move somewhere warm - how she could consider that prospect on such a hot day, I did not understand.
The old woman came up to me, announced herself with a little “hello” and seeing my parched figure sprawled across the length of the chair, offered me something to drink - some lemonade perhaps? Of course! It was the best offer I’d had all day. The drink was sweet and cold and I downed it in three short gulps. That made her smile. She then asked if there was anything I wanted to see. I said I wasn't much for garage sales and would prefer to just sit and wait my mother out.
She asked if I liked books. Of course I did - but I guessed there was nothing here for me to enjoy. Come see what I have, she urged. I considered a tepid response but the lemonade treat was still sweet on my tongue and it reminded me of my obligation. Dutifully, I followed her to the garage, passing clothes, records and other household goods. Behind a table of neatly lined china was a large cardboard box of books and magazines. We both bent down and began to rummage through. She purposefully pulled out a small, thin hardcover book, the front plain white save the simple lettering of a curiously alluring title - "I Have A Dream". I was intrigued enough she saw, so she handed me the book. I opened it up and began to read. I was surprised by its unusual structure. There were only a few words per page, an entire oratory delivered in small, individual frames. It was as if the book was instructing the eye to give each word its own importance and weight.
"Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation."
As I traveled from page to page, I sunk deeper into the monologue, compelled to better understand the discrimination so hotly set before me. The anger and frustration was clear but it was balanced by a strong, peaceful defiance – words lifting off the page, calling to people (he must have been talking to people) to stand up to the injustice they wrongfully endured.
And with the turn of another page, the author made a giant leap forward beckoning his followers to band together and seek out the future that belonged to them. The words – oh those incredible words that would make me come to love language and its enviable seductive power - “I have a dream”. Over and over again, “I have a dream”.
"I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: We hold these truths to be self-evident that all men are created equal."
“I have a dream that my four children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”
“I have a dream that one day the state of Alabama, whose governor's lips are presently dripping with the words of interposition and nullification, will be transformed into a situation where little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls and walk together as sisters and brothers.”
"You can keep it." She startled me and I looked up. "You like it, of course - so you can keep it - for your troubles today."
I thanked her, tucked it under my arm and went back to my mother, no longer apathetic to her cause. I now understood the thrill of the hunt and the spontaneous joy of connecting with something completely unexpected. I had found my own little treasure, a tiny book with words made so powerful, they could open hearts. It was a character changing discovery.
As luck would have it, my mother didn’t burden me with much that day. In one hand I held a small bag of costume jewelry and not much more. This time, she seemed content enough to settle on the surprise of my own enjoyment.
Over the years, most of those garage sale finds lived out a short existence, finding their inevitable way to the garbage can. Others were more lucky and breathed new life when happily passed on to another garage sale junkie. But not the book. It was a keeper. I still have it today and it's in surprisingly good shape, although not for lack of reading. I covered and recovered it many times over the years to protect its original pristine quality. Somehow that preserved neatness reminds me of the woman who gifted it to me in the first place - a bright and sympathetic senior who saw an opportunity to open the mind of a bored young girl. She is a wonderful memory, I'm a lucky lady to have benefited from her generosity and will always, always treasure her gift.
Happy Martin Luther King Day everyone!
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P.S. In honour of it all, I'll leave you with "the speech".
