Margo Oxendine

Deadlines being what they are, I must write this column immediately after Thanksgiving, and even then it’s late, as usual.

Oh, Thanksgiving. Isn’t it but a distant memory now that Christmas has passed and we’ve rung in the New Year?

Still. The day after Thanksgiving — known as “Black Friday” — I was determined not to go shopping. Frankly, I could not be paid to go near a store or a mall on Black Friday. I try to do all my gift shopping — what little there is of it — online.

Sadly, I am no longer a shopper. I must say, however, I retired a champion.

So, I decided to have some fun on Black Friday and go see a fabulous new friend. At my age, fabulous new friends are few and far between, so I try to grab them up quickly.

He lives on a sheep farm near Churchville, so we decided to meet for lunch at one of his favorite places. This is not the sort of place where one must, or even can, make reservations. It is the Mountain View General Store in West Augusta. Truly, a sweet little place in what must be called the Middle of Nowhere. I love places in the middle of nowhere. I much prefer them to big cities, most of the time.

I walked into the place and did not see my friend. I went to the counter of the bustling spot. I must have looked confused. I asked a stupid question: “I’m wondering if I’m in the right place?”

“Are you here to meet Edward?” Tracey, the clerk, asked.

Wow. I was! Perhaps I looked rather out of place among the host of hunters coming in for beef jerky, pickled eggs and camouflage gloves.

While I waited, I browsed. I love little general stores. They are chockablock with treasures you won’t find in any mall. You never know just what you might find. And indeed, I did find something I’ve been seeking for months now: Real cherry jam. I snatched it up.

And then, what did I see but something I’d been thinking I needed for ages now: A winter hat. Not just any hat, mind you. Not the type of hat one might wear to church. No. It was a proper winter hat with a faux-fur trim and earflaps you can pull down and buckle under your chin. I picked up a black one, and then I spotted it, peeking out from the pile of flapped hats: Hot pink! I snatched it up. Where in the world might one find a hot pink hat with faux fur earflaps? I tell you, that hat was sitting on the shelf just waiting for me, and only me.

When Edward arrived, he greeted everyone like they were old friends, which indeed they are. We went back to talk to Betty, who was cooking in the kitchen. She was deviling eggs, and frying country ham. We had a tasty lunch, yakking in high spirits, trying to get the low-down on each other. Delightful.

On the drive home, I thought happily of my new pink hat. And then it hit me: Pink hats are a recurring part of my life. When I was about 3, I put on my little pink hat and took off toward town from my aunt’s farm. I had been made to stay home as a punishment, but by golly, I wanted to go to town. My mother looked everywhere, and finally, she could see the top of my little pink hat just bobbing over the rise in the road. I still remember that pink hat.

When I first started my life as a newspaper reporter, I was also very much obsessed with berets. I had them in about seven or eight colors. But naturally, I preferred the hot pink one.

I vividly recall wearing it to take photos at a football game. I neither know, nor care, about football. Yet duty called, and I had to attempt to capture the fervent action. I stepped out onto the field to get a closer shot of the thundering herd headed toward me at full throttle. Suddenly, the loudspeaker blurted to life: “Get that woman in the pink hat off the field!” a voice boomed. Oh. That must be me.

So, I went shopping on Black Friday anyway. And I am already making memories with my new pink hat.

To order Margo Oxendine’s A Party of One, email [email protected], or call 540-468-2147 Monday-Thursday from 9-5.