The Bag
A Strange Old Woman
It was such a trite thing. Just a little thing. The bag had a weathered look with a hole in the bottom where a patch had been stitched. A raggedy item that was little more than a piece of cloth sewn with a bit of twine at the top, but never had anything so quaint become such an object of intrigue. She carried it everywhere she went, always on her person no matter the occasion. A strange old woman she was. Perhaps more mysterious than strange. It was not her character that earned her such a reputation, nor was it her outward appearance. Rather, it was the fact that no one knew what kind of person she was exactly. She dressed plainly, but almost too plainly. Newcomers would not notice her, yet if one lived in Snowmelt Valley, they would begin to see a woman that blended in so well that as time went on she would eventually stick out to the point where it would make more sense if she was wearing a bright red jumpsuit. She was unerringly like the small pouch she carried, no one knew what was inside. A tantalizing mystery that bag. Such a trite thing, just a little thing.
There were a few facts people knew about her, oh certainly! Though this was a restricted list to say the least. She was a miller that had been laboring a couple miles up Snowmelt creek for almost fifty years. She went to church every Sunday, and appeared at the pub where she enjoyed a glass of whiskey on the rocks with her dinner at six in the afternoon every day like clockwork. She wore the same plain loafers with a hole in the left toe, and two different sets of overalls; one for the summer, and one for the winter. She also wore a tattered button up brown shirt, as well as a grey wool coat when she pleased. Besides her clothing was that same article she always openly carried. That mysterious bag.
Many had just assumed it was her purse, but at the pub she always placed the bag atop the bar, and removed a bill fold from her back pocket when she paid for her dinner. Some would inquire what was in the bag, to which she always replied, “What is inside? What is inside is exactly what is inside.”
No further answer came from her, nor did any further conversation for that matter.
There were a few facts people knew about her, oh certainly! Though this was a restricted list to say the least. She was a miller that had been laboring a couple miles up Snowmelt creek for almost fifty years. She went to church every Sunday, and appeared at the pub where she enjoyed a glass of whiskey on the rocks with her dinner at six in the afternoon every day like clockwork. She wore the same plain loafers with a hole in the left toe, and two different sets of overalls; one for the summer, and one for the winter. She also wore a tattered button up brown shirt, as well as a grey wool coat when she pleased. Besides her clothing was that same article she always openly carried. That mysterious bag.
Many had just assumed it was her purse, but at the pub she always placed the bag atop the bar, and removed a bill fold from her back pocket when she paid for her dinner. Some would inquire what was in the bag, to which she always replied, “What is inside? What is inside is exactly what is inside.”
No further answer came from her, nor did any further conversation for that matter.