God, another aisle of Midwestern, north woods, "gone fishin'" kitsch. Stanton harbored a roiling caldron of irritation for pulling off the interstate. The billboards boasted the best antiques in the state, but the tiny, central Wisconsin town offered a meager two shops. While it felt good to stretch his legs, the promising detour appeared to be a waste of time.
For years Stanton had obsessed over an unusual quest. In his youth, a long wooden lint brush had adorned his grandmother's dresser, bristle-side up, among the arrayed feminine vials, powder puffs, and fashion trinkets. He recalled with conflicting sentiment the brush's bite when his pranks short-fused Gram's charity. Tales of his tender cheeks delighted his switchy gal-pals who inevitably wondered if he'd inherited this implement of domestic maintenance, both for his occasional comeuppance, and their own. Sadly, it was snatched up by a collector a decade ago in her estate sale while Stanton was away at college. His search for a reasonable facsimile had paralleled for years his sales calls throughout his five-state territory, bringing him, at present, face-to-face with a carved black bear scaling a hat stand.
Muttering foul judgments, Stanton exited and made for his car. At the corner, though, he spied a mid-century storefront signed "The Amish Woodshed." Thinking it couldn't be worse; he wandered over and poked in. Quainter than the dépôt de merdeacross the way, he divined quality with the enticing aromas of new-cut cedar and fresh shellac. The collection of spare furnishings intimated unhurried hours crafting the simple wonders of utilitarian durability. Stanton felt a small rush. This could be a treat.
He meandered at an aficionado's pace, gliding fingers across precise joinery and sampling the austere wooden chairs. A dozen pieces, no more. Each with a singular purpose, pared down to its functional essence. What would life be like with hardly a worry beyond spiritual maturation while planing a table leg to ethereal perfection?
Then he saw it. Perched on a breakfront shelf among a collection of brushes for bath time scrubbing and tangled hair taming, a varnished cherry wood lint brush with a long bulbous handle, perfectly shaped for a biggish hand as his. The business end was an oblong oval, flat as the Dakota plains with an underside crop of short horsehair bristles. Excited and impressed, Stanton brinked poetic, the entire configuration exquisitely purposed for flecking off remnant pet-sheds and, better still, the rhythmic conflagration of a wonton lass's upturned summits.
He absently settled on a nearby straight-back chair and turned the wooden implement over in his hands. The craft was old-world, superb. After caressing the course hair tips, he turned it over and swatted his palm to appreciate its full sensual spectrum. It was then he realized his actions were studied.
A gray-haired matron in traditional black dress, cape, and apron peered across her wire-rimmed readers then turned to a twentyish woman clad in a plain blue dress with a matching apron and white bonnet. She, on the other hand, stood transfixed by Stanton's gestures. The elder nudged her fledgling with a hip-bump and the rosy-cheeked waif slowly approached while her co-worker faded to the back room.
"It's a beautiful brush. Isn't it, sir?"
Stanton held it up, evaluating a rare gem. "It's wonderful. Feels good in my hand."
"You handle it well." The frame of the young woman's white bonnet accentuated the blush crossing her cheeks.
He took in her round, Germanic face, pouty lips, sky-blue eyes, and blond wisps peeking out at her jaw line. "My grandmother had a lint brush like this. Very old." He laughed. "The brush, that is. It worked wonders."
His smile was returned with, "I would imagine so."
"I've looked a long time for one like this."
"Do you have animals?"
Stanton looked up abruptly. "Me? Oh no, I have a condo in the city. No place or time for pets. Still..." Stanton slid the flat wood side back and forth across his thigh as he held her gaze. "It would come in handy once in a while."
Her eyes lit up. "Oh my, yes. It's delightfully multi-purpose."
Their eyes locked with cautious intent. A glint in hers betrayed a worldliness he didn't expect from such a controlled upbringing. He had read an article about the Amish's recent tradition of the walk around, where the youth could experience the modern world before returning to the fold. This girl, or woman, though, seemed several years beyond that period. On the other hand, each locale had its own variations. He slapped the brush once in his palm and she jumped. "I'm curious about the store name," he said.
"Yes?"
"Not much of a woodshed. It seems more like an old diner or something."
"It's been a number of things. Most recently an art gallery, but that went out of business about five years ago." She looked suddenly at her feet, her voice softer. "The woodshed's out back."
"Yeah? Interesting."
Now her thumbs knit circles around each other in her clasped hands. She looked up. "Do you want to try it?"
"This?" He held up the brush as his heart pummeled the lining of his herringbone sport coat. Not sure she meant what he thought, he joked. "Why? Do you have animals here?"
She laughed. "No, silly. Follow me."
Stanton eyed the undulations under her calf-length dress as she headed for the back door. He glanced quickly around. The older woman was nowhere to be seen. Feeling suddenly in another world, he hoofed after her.
