Day 12: Wednesday’s were a magical days for my 12-year-old self. It was auction day. I wanted to go every week. Not to snack or look at the flea market, I wanted to see the animals.
One evening my Dad and Grandfather took me to the actual auction. I nervously climbed the steep seats that surrounded the earth floor. The higher we climbed, the cigarette haze became thicker and the lights blurred the faces of the people on the other side of the room. Animals were brought in by men in faded denim overalls, each carrying a cane used to prod and direct the animal. While the animal circled the floor, a quick talking auctioneer orchestrated a flurry of bidding, ending with a crack of the gavel￼ and a loud SOLD that sounded more like a song than a word.