November 1979
Rosie hadn’t had this dream in awhile, but she remembered being here before. She was at the top of a long ridge that was like the crest of a wave, and she was looking down on a valley that had a stream running at the bottom of it. There were clumps of mist clinging to the low ground, and she could see the sun glinting through wisps of clouds on the mountain at the other side of the valley.
And there was the most beautiful music playing! It wafted up from the valley like a sweet aroma, from instruments that she could not identify exactly. Perhaps a violin or two, some kind of bagpipe, a tin whistle. A chorus of voices behind a high, aching voice that was lamenting something. It was sad but sweet, and she wanted to hear more of it.
As before, she found herself running down the hillside to the cluster of trees by the stream, which is where the music was coming from. She had to get down there and see who was playing it, find out for once what this strange, sweet music meant, who was behind it.
She got closer, halfway down the hillside, with the Spring grass smell in her nose and the sun on her cheeks, and the sky fighting between dark and light, mist and clarity. She was closer, closer; it seemed that this time she would finally get there. . .
And then she was awake once again, with the gnawing feeling of loss inside, like so many times before. She stared up at the white ceiling of her bedroom, saw the pattern of the roses on her wallpaper, and heard the sounds of the cars going by on the street outside.
Why did this happen again? She hadn’t dreamed that dream in awhile, but now it was back, with the same result.
Something is missing in my life, she thought. The dream is telling me there is something missing. But what?
And then she heard the knocking on the door downstairs. It was an insistent rapping, three raps then a pause, and then three more raps. On and on it went, as if the person knew she was inside and would not stop until she opened the door.
She looked at the clock radio on the stand next to her bed. It said 8:30. The record store didn’t open until 10:00, so why was someone knocking on the door?
It was probably another crazy oldies collector. She had dealt with a number of these fanatics since she and Dittybopper opened the store a year ago, guys who were obsessed with collecting old 45 records or 78 LPs, and they came around all the time with their greedy eyes, pawing the records in the bins and trying to find a record by some obscure group of teenaged a capella singers from 1954, some group that only released a couple of records and then faded into obscurity.
Oldies were starting to get popular nationally, not just here in Philadelphia, and these collectors were looking to make a killing. The prices of these 45s had gone up steadily in the last couple of years, and the crazy fanatics had come out of the woodwork.
Rap, rap, rap!
Rosie got out of bed and fumbled around on the floor, looking for her jeans. She slept in only a t-shirt and underwear, and once she found her jeans crumpled up on the floor next to an empty wine bottle she pulled them on, then wormed her feet into flip flops and looked at herself in the mirror.
She saw a middle aged lady, with bags under her somewhat bloodshot eyes, brown hair with gray roots showing, and a bit too much stomach hanging over the waistband of her jeans.
You look every bit your age, she thought. You’re 52 and selling oldies records to weird guys who can’t look you in the eye and would sell their own grandmother to the Mafia to get their greasy hands on a mint condition Danny And The Juniors version of “Pony Express”.
Rap, rap rap!
“Okay,” she yelled in the direction of the nearest window, which was open a crack. “Back off, pal. I’m coming!”
She found her way down the stairs blearily to the office in the back of the store, then unlocked the door and went through the aisles of record bins to the front of the store.
As she suspected it was a man at the door, and he looked strange. He had longish hair, thick glasses, and ill-fitting clothes. His pale skin looked like he spent a lot of time indoors.
She unlocked the door and opened it just a crack, enough to say, “We don’t open till 10, mister. You can come back later.”
“No, please!” he said. “I drove all the way here from Bucks County. I don’t get the car much, and this is a big deal for me. I’m looking to sell a record. It’s important, please, can I come in?”
Rosie wanted to tell him to go away, because part of her worried that he was some kind of loony, but his eyes looked gentle and she felt sorry for him. He probably didn’t have much else in his life besides record collecting.
“Please?” he said again. “I won’t stay long. I just want to find out if you’re interested in this. It’s a mint condition record. My mother died a month ago, and I found all these old records in her attic. I think some of them are valuable. You could make a lot of money on these!”
This is the beginning of Book Five of "Rose Of Skibbereen". To read more, please purchase the book at Amazon or Smashwords.
Rosie hadn’t had this dream in awhile, but she remembered being here before. She was at the top of a long ridge that was like the crest of a wave, and she was looking down on a valley that had a stream running at the bottom of it. There were clumps of mist clinging to the low ground, and she could see the sun glinting through wisps of clouds on the mountain at the other side of the valley.
And there was the most beautiful music playing! It wafted up from the valley like a sweet aroma, from instruments that she could not identify exactly. Perhaps a violin or two, some kind of bagpipe, a tin whistle. A chorus of voices behind a high, aching voice that was lamenting something. It was sad but sweet, and she wanted to hear more of it.
As before, she found herself running down the hillside to the cluster of trees by the stream, which is where the music was coming from. She had to get down there and see who was playing it, find out for once what this strange, sweet music meant, who was behind it.
She got closer, halfway down the hillside, with the Spring grass smell in her nose and the sun on her cheeks, and the sky fighting between dark and light, mist and clarity. She was closer, closer; it seemed that this time she would finally get there. . .
And then she was awake once again, with the gnawing feeling of loss inside, like so many times before. She stared up at the white ceiling of her bedroom, saw the pattern of the roses on her wallpaper, and heard the sounds of the cars going by on the street outside.
Why did this happen again? She hadn’t dreamed that dream in awhile, but now it was back, with the same result.
Something is missing in my life, she thought. The dream is telling me there is something missing. But what?
And then she heard the knocking on the door downstairs. It was an insistent rapping, three raps then a pause, and then three more raps. On and on it went, as if the person knew she was inside and would not stop until she opened the door.
She looked at the clock radio on the stand next to her bed. It said 8:30. The record store didn’t open until 10:00, so why was someone knocking on the door?
It was probably another crazy oldies collector. She had dealt with a number of these fanatics since she and Dittybopper opened the store a year ago, guys who were obsessed with collecting old 45 records or 78 LPs, and they came around all the time with their greedy eyes, pawing the records in the bins and trying to find a record by some obscure group of teenaged a capella singers from 1954, some group that only released a couple of records and then faded into obscurity.
Oldies were starting to get popular nationally, not just here in Philadelphia, and these collectors were looking to make a killing. The prices of these 45s had gone up steadily in the last couple of years, and the crazy fanatics had come out of the woodwork.
Rap, rap, rap!
Rosie got out of bed and fumbled around on the floor, looking for her jeans. She slept in only a t-shirt and underwear, and once she found her jeans crumpled up on the floor next to an empty wine bottle she pulled them on, then wormed her feet into flip flops and looked at herself in the mirror.
She saw a middle aged lady, with bags under her somewhat bloodshot eyes, brown hair with gray roots showing, and a bit too much stomach hanging over the waistband of her jeans.
You look every bit your age, she thought. You’re 52 and selling oldies records to weird guys who can’t look you in the eye and would sell their own grandmother to the Mafia to get their greasy hands on a mint condition Danny And The Juniors version of “Pony Express”.
Rap, rap rap!
“Okay,” she yelled in the direction of the nearest window, which was open a crack. “Back off, pal. I’m coming!”
She found her way down the stairs blearily to the office in the back of the store, then unlocked the door and went through the aisles of record bins to the front of the store.
As she suspected it was a man at the door, and he looked strange. He had longish hair, thick glasses, and ill-fitting clothes. His pale skin looked like he spent a lot of time indoors.
She unlocked the door and opened it just a crack, enough to say, “We don’t open till 10, mister. You can come back later.”
“No, please!” he said. “I drove all the way here from Bucks County. I don’t get the car much, and this is a big deal for me. I’m looking to sell a record. It’s important, please, can I come in?”
Rosie wanted to tell him to go away, because part of her worried that he was some kind of loony, but his eyes looked gentle and she felt sorry for him. He probably didn’t have much else in his life besides record collecting.
“Please?” he said again. “I won’t stay long. I just want to find out if you’re interested in this. It’s a mint condition record. My mother died a month ago, and I found all these old records in her attic. I think some of them are valuable. You could make a lot of money on these!”
This is the beginning of Book Five of "Rose Of Skibbereen". To read more, please purchase the book at Amazon or Smashwords.
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