We’ve lived in Rapid City for about 25-years, and every few months or so of each of those years, I’ve found myself strolling and perusing the odds, ends, and whatnots of The St. Joe Antique Mall. A hobby of sorts, or more so, a form of meditation that stirs up nostalgia for times past, gratitude for the present, and contemplation of the future.

I’ve never been much of the lotus position “ooohhhmmm” type of meditator, I prefer more of the various body-in-motion forms of meditation, such as walking, biking, and strumming the guitar. I guess my body and brain aren’t limber enough for the lotus position. So it goes.

Although I frequent the antique mall, I rarely buy anything, that’s not why I’m there. That’s obviously not why a lot people are there, as there are many items that have avoided purchase for as long as I’ve strolled the store.

The same guy has worked in the store all this time as well, and I often see him visiting with folks that frequent the store, but that’s not why I’m there. We always exchange the basic socially expected greetings in a pleasant and kindly manner. This seems to be enough for each of us? His son has joined him running the store in the past few years, he’s a bit chattier than his father, but he’s quite kind, so I politely give him a listen on occasion.

There are certain items that catch my eye and corral my attention more than others, for reasons unknown, wooden pulleys, wing-tips, phones, typewriters, suitcases, and hats always pull me in for a closer look. We generally can’t control that which we desire, but we can control whether or not we act on that desire, and most of the time I am able to resist the act of purchasing such items. Most of the time.

Often times I spot an old phone amongst the shelves, pick up the phone receiver and spin the rotary dial…933-2516…I see my Grandma Rose or Grandpa Ardell reaching for the phone at the farm, and hear the voices I hope I am always able to hear. I reluctantly hang up, spin the dial…933-2359…and see my Grandpa Fritz, standing in his woodshop, set down his hammer to answer the phone. Grandma Helen is occupied with Wheel of Fortune. I should’ve known not to call at that time.

A few years ago, I stopped in for a bit of meditative rambling amongst the antiques and came upon an old cowboy hat. I am well aware of the existence of head lice. Snagging a classmates stocking cap to clown around in the fourth grade got me out of week or so of school. That memory vividly floats through, but, as usual, I cannot overcome the desire to place the cowboy hat upon my head.

It settles into place like it was where it was always meant to be. If it contains head lice, they are coming home with me and the hat. Just an old cowboy hat, a dead man’s hat I suppose, well-worn and sweat stained.

I hope that many moons from now, when my time draws to an end, someone else picks up this dead man’s hat and moves it a little further along the trail. Lice and all.

Happy trails.