Free Carpe Bead'em by Tonya Kappes Page B

he can’t pawn.
    Like a good girl, I do as I’m told.
    “That was quick.” Uncle Jimmy said,
ducking when I jumped over him.
    “Yep, bye.” I secured the bag under my
arm.
    I don’t peek in
the bag until halfway home, in fear of letting out any unwanted bugs. But
curiosity has gotten the better of me.
    I reach over and
take out the shiny object sticking out of the bag. Silverware?
    There is some
carving on the handle.
    What in the
world am I going to do with tarnished silver ware? The deeper I dig, I pull out
more silver with carved handles. They all have different scenes carved on them,
and is actually pretty.
    I put the bag on
the back porch, when I get home, and start sorting the silver. It is the most
beautiful matching set of six forks and six knives, all with carved ivory-figure
handles. All the carvings are of children dressed in Victorian garb. I run my
finger over the fork I’m holding, wondering about its history. Wondering if
these were Aunt Grace’s as a child, or if they’re worth any money. And why she’s
passing on her treasures to me. Is Aunt Grace the psychic one? Does she think
her days are numbered?
    I repack
everything in a grocery bag and throw Aunt Grace’s in the garbage.
    I don’t care if
it’s worth zilch. It’s Aunt Grace’s treasure, and it’s worth something to me.
    It
joins the china, in the back of my car, just in case.

 
    Chapter
Seventeen
     
     
    The more I look
at my bracelets, the desire builds to design and make more. I must’ve dreamed about
more designs. I woke up with my creative juices flowing. It’s a feeling I can’t
describe. I dance around the room and the images keep coming. I stop to jot
down a few notes so I won’t forget.
    Visions of
greens, pinks, yellows, swirls, and glass sparkling, consumes me. as I slide
them on the wire. It may sound strange, but I want to have a purpose in this
world. And if I can make one person happy by receiving one of my bracelets as a
gift, it makes me happy.
    I lace up my
tennis shoes, and put all my extra energy into jogging through Hyde Park before
work. If by chance, Dee is at One Bead At A Time, I might have to stop.
    The rain can’t
dampen the twinkling beads through the window.
    My soul awakens.
I feel alive!  
    The person
looking at me, in the glass window, is not the same girl who walked in this
door yesterday. Just like a curve ball, it hits me. I’ve never been as
passionate about doing something other than fashion design.
    I used to cut
out clothes from magazines and paste them together, all the way down to the
accessories. I’d wake up in the middle of the night with a new outfit in mind.
Now I’m waking up, thinking about beads.
    “What are you
doing?” Dee has a vested interest in why I’m standing in the rain, pressing my
hands and nose up against her store widow. She motions for me to come in. “It’s
pouring rain.”
    “I was jogging.”
I don’t tell her I’ve been bit by the beading bug. “And I stopped to look at
the window display.”
    “Jogging, in the
rain?” She hands me a towel from behind the counter. “You’re soaked. I’ve heard
about you die hard runners.”
    “A good stress
reliever.” I run the towel down my ponytail, and come clean. “I loved making the
bracelets. I have a few other designs in my head and I want to get a couple
different beads to see if they work.”
    “So that’s why
you’re really here.” She laughs. “It happens to the best of us.”
    I’m a little
embarrassed, though I don’t know why. 
    “Good,” she
says, and puts a few shipping boxes on the glass counter. “That’s the drive you
need to make the bracelets. Plus your excitement adds to your creative flow.”
    If only she knew
how much creative flow is going through me, she might call off our deal out of
fear. Fear of my obsession.
    I sort through
some of the chez glass beads. Designs start popping in my head one after the
other, and I sketch them on a piece of paper. I take my time so I