Saturday Morning, February 21, 2026
For Whom the Bell Tolls
The little boy stepped forward, his shoes slipping into fresh dirt. He looked down, first at his feet then into the deep hole beyond. A large shiny box balanced before him. Let us pray. Startled, the child looked up, studying the speaker's face. Worn, weary, there seemed to be a kindness in his expression though the words the man spoke were gibberish to him, mumbled and jumbled. A house with a thousand rooms... On and on the man rambled. What was he saying? It was a language unknown to the boy. Who's house? What rooms? Why was he here? Why were all these people here? This box. This hole.
Japanese bronze temple bell, 13" H.
14k white gold diamond earrings. A true example of longevity.
How the dirt smelled. The boy reached down and grabbed some, squeezing his fingers around the mass. Dark, dank, it crumbled into chunks. Amen. Another magical word. The crowd stirred. He felt his mother grab his arm and tug him backwards. The dirt fell from his grasp, spilling onto and inside his shoes. The crowd shifted, released from their spell. Several people spoke, a few began singing. His older brother and sister still stood silent, for once not teasing him. What was the matter with everyone?
The Long and Winding Road
The ride home seemed endless. The radio, normally blasting, remained silent. Shoved between his siblings in the back seat, their weight crushing him in every turn, he stole his breath on the straight-a-ways. Closed windows stifled the air. The engine whined, but at least it had something to say. After an eternity, his mother pulled into their driveway. Turning the key off, the engine sputtered and spit, then went silent. No one moved. No one spoke. He struggled forward beyond the clashing rocks and stood leaning over the console. He reached out and touched his mother's shoulder. Momma, what's wrong? She covered his hand with hers. Let's get you inside.
Handpainted flower on linen quilt patch.
Rest 'neath this quilt. And rest in heaven.
Jane Louisa Seddinger, July, [18]47, Phila.
Roses have thorns, but may their point be bathed for thee in Gileads balm. The Great Physician's hand anoint each wound, and every billow calm. 9" x 9"
Never Far from the Madding Crowd
So many people crowded their home, it was difficult for him to navigate the rooms though he was small enough to slip between their legs. A respectful murmur filled the air. Dinner, laid out upon the table, was self-serving. Untouched. Pies, normally devoured first, lay fallow, serving blades still shiny.
Guyol acrylic sculpture, dated 1983, 18" H.
He wandered, collecting snippets of conversation. More jumble and mumble. A din better understood by sound rather than sentences. Every place he stopped people stared down at him to the point of embarrassment. Finally, he discovered his cousins sequestered in the sun room, huddled like a litter of puppies. He spoke. Has anyone seen my dad? Everyone squirmed, avoiding eye contact. An older cousin responded. Billy, your dad is dead. He blinked, not comprehending the comment. What's dead?
Long May You Run
His world had changed. Even though he couldn't grasp the thought. His mother and siblings were so silent it scared him. Surprisingly, he never felt closer to them. A weird feeling. But he felt stronger for it. Only when his mother talked to him at bedtime and explained he would never see his father again, did it start to mean something. She lingered, sitting on the side of the bed, waiting for sleep to overtake him. So many thoughts flooded his head. The more questions he asked, the fewer answers she gave. The room started slipping away. His head felt heavy. His mother drew the covers up around him and kissed him good night. With a flick of the switch, the room darkened. Good night, she called from the hallway as she closed the door. But he never responded. Slumber had started its magic.
Seventeenth century English writer John Donne captured this moment, reserving it in perpetuity. No man is an island, entire to itself. Every man is a piece of continent, a part of the main.
14k yellow gold pearl, diamond, & emerald brooch.
We all have purpose to one another, linked into our endless chain of humanity. Every link broken is repaired by those remaining. A re-clasp of hands. Without this unity, life would cease. Paul Simon retorted, I am a rock, I am an island...and a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries. A sonnet of love. A song. An emotion. But even Paul found new beginnings in later relationships. Life alters, humans realign. The necessity in living. Saturday we will crumble many chunks once again as our journey continues.
Doors open at 8 AM. Auction starts at 9 AM. PA AU 12165L [bb]