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The Shop Next Door

Savannah, Georgia. 1782. The scorching southern sun was unrelenting, beating down on the lively young port town. The cicadas whirred endlessly. Summer was in full swing.

"Come on, sweetheart. Gotta keep up with mommy." The woman snapped her fingers near the face of her son. The boy turned his vision forward, prying it away from all of the fascinating storefronts that lay to either side of him. He toddled onward, trying to force his stout little legs catch up with his mother's long-legged strides.

"Ah. Here we are." The woman stopped at the street corner, having found her target: the general store. There, she'd replenish the family's supply of flour, coffee, and bacon. And of course, she'd purchase a small pastry for her sweet little boy. A treat always put him a good mood. But the boy was not interested in the wares of the general store. No, he was drawn instead to the adjacent storefront, from which emitted strange sounds and unusual smells. What was in there? He had to know.

The boy wandered away from his mother's sight and stepped in front of the mysterious shop. He squinted up at the sign above the door, but, just as all the other times he'd tried it, he still couldn't decipher the mystifying, painted-on symbols. Instead, he peered into the open door. It was dark and hazy inside, with small particles fluttering through the air. There were men inside, working, but his short stature and the countertop obscured the boy's vision as to what they were doing.

He stepped in.

Instantly, the smells and sounds became much clearer to his senses. The smell was of wood. Freshly cut wood, and varnish. The boy let the wonderful scent creep deep into his lungs. Ah.

The sound was sawing, and hammering. Some of the men inside this shop were sawing planks of wood, cutting them into smaller pieces. Others were hammering in nails, joining the pieces together again. The steady rhythm of their work hypnotized the boy. He was fascinated. He began to wander up to the counter, to speak to one of the workers when—

"What are you doing in here?!" His mother's voice nearly shrieked. Her hand wrapped tight around the boy's chubby wrist and yanked him away. "Come on, Marcus. I don't need you associating with colored men."

The boy's feet reluctantly tumbled backwards, one after the other, out of the shop and again onto the sun-baked street. He turned back to look at it, longingly. A young man appeared in the doorway, watching him, a saw still in his hand. The man gave the boy a warm smile and waved. The boy waved back.