On a rainy spring evening, as I was closing up the shop a couple of years ago, a picture fell off the wall.  Since I had just placed the picture on the wall, I figured I hung it incorrectly and returned to put it back, this time making sure it was secure.  I never gave it another thought. 

The next morning, I arrived back at the shop to "wake it up".  That's what I call the time before customers begin to arrive.  I make a fresh pot of coffee, light the candles, turn on some Frank Sinatra and do a walk through to make sure everything is as it should be.  But on that morning, it wasn't.

The picture that I had hung on the wall the night before, had once again mysteriousl fell to the floor.  It was a bit more dramatic this time - as a small vase and a vintage figurine had also joined in this game of gravity.  Oddly, those two items were not in the path of the fallen picture.  With more important things to do then wonder and worry about the how and why, I put everything back in its proper place and went about my morning.

Throughout the rest of that year, the above situation I just described would repeat itself.  Sometimes a book would fall; other times a picture frame would be askew... but it wasn't until I felt a moment of cold while walking down the hallway one evening that I knew our little shop had a ghost.  You see, I never, ever, EVER, feel cold.  I am completing my fifth year of menopause.  The only time I feel cold is when I bury my head in the freezer during a hot flash.  And even then, it's more of a gentle chill.  Not at all the sub-freezing cooling that I so desperately need.

I didn't tell anyone at first about our little 2nd Avenue Spirit.  But as the weeks and months went on, I wasn't the only person who began to notice and feel things.  Customers would occasionally mention that they "felt" a presence, and I would light heartedly tell them, ah yes, that's our ghost.  It always struck up a fun and lively conversation but that was it.  Until it wasn't.

One day, a gentleman who owns an accounting firm on 3rd Avenue stopped by the shop.  It was his first time in and he seemed to truly enjoy perusing around our eclectic, quirky shop.  As he brought his items to the register, he quite casually said, "so you have a ghost too?"  I smiled and then giggled, and replied, "how do you know that?"  He said his building had one too and while his was friendly as well, he was growing a bit tired of his shenanigans.  He went on to tell me exactly where he felt his presence and to my surprise, that was the exact location where our ghost seemed to linger.  He asked if I had named our ghost and to his disappointment, I had not.  He assigned me with the task of naming him and after much thought, I decided upon, Percival.  Sir Percival  was the most loyal of King Arthur's knights, and it's also a pretty cool name for a ghost.

I found myself talking to Percival throughout the day - anytime something was where it shouldn't be, I blamed him.  I must confess, sometimes I think it wasn't always him.  Customers don't seem to enjoy putting things back where they found them and Lord knows I have the attention span of a drunk flea and sometimes don't put things where they belong, but even so, it was fun to "chat" with him as I closed up the shop at night and tell him to please not make too much of a mess.

Percival was now part of our shop.  All the vendors knew about him, many of the customers would ask what silliness he had been up to and each night, we would have our little chats.  It was no longer odd to speak about the ghost that lived in our shop and was a bit mischievous and playful. He was part of the Paisley Pig family now. But then one day, not too long ago, on an afternoon in July that was hotter than hell and half of Georgia, two ladies walked into the Paisley Pig for the first time.  

I immediately felt their energy and knew they were going to be fun.  They had that cool kind of silver hair that some ladies get after a certain age, not that dull grey.  It was long and wavy and they both gave off such a fabulous vibe.   They weren't three feet inside the shop when one of them says, rather loudly and with a boisterous laugh and Cheshire cat grin, "oh honey, you've got a ghost in here!"  I joined in her laughter and said, "yes ma'am, we do, his name is Percival."  She stood perfectly still, closed her eyes and began shaking her head side to side.  Then she said, "no, no, that's not gonna do baby girl, your ghost is a she, not a he."   "Wonderful", I shouted, "I gave the ghost an identity crisis."  Her friend laughed and said, "don't worry darlin', doesn't seem like anyone knows their gender anymore!"

The ladies took their time walking around the shop and after their second lap around, one of them told me that the ghost's name began with the letter "M".  She again closed her eyes and started saying... "Marga---", "Mar---", "May---", "Mauri---", and then she shouted, "MAXINE!"  She went on to say that she was dressed in off-white in the style of the 1920s.  She said Maxine was an extremely happy soul but very mischievous and liked to have fun.  I had chills.  She said she has definite likes and dislikes.  "That explains it!"  I shouted.  Anytime I play music from 1980s or later after the shop closes, the song will just randomly stop or it will skip to a song that isn't even on that playlist.  And the next song is almost always one from the 1940s.  Apparently Maxine is not fond of T-Pain or Rick James.

I love knowing a little more about our 2nd Avenue Spirit.  Yes, Maxine is full of mayhem & mischief, but she only adds to the eclectic charm and magic of our shop.  Maxine enjoys setting off the security cameras in the hallway late at night, she also lights the candles immediately after we blow them out, pushes art off the walls, especially if there is a pig on the canvas and most recently, Jamie, our manager, watched a set of mini velvet pumpkins mysteriously scoot off the counter and fall to the floor one night last week. It's like having an invisible toddler floating around. 

Her last known location was sitting in the lounge area at the shop - she was near the burgundy Victorian velvet couch that is probably as old as she is.  Count Basie with the Kansas City Orchestra was playing, and that day she didn't change the song.  The song  that was playing...."The Only Girl I Ever Loved."  

​We certainly love our little Maxine.

"Lord Jesus, this is a dream! This is what Christmas is, just like THIS!"

Those were the words spoken by Miss Jean a few moments after she walked into Paisley Pig on an autumn afternoon in late November.

It was just about time to close when Miss Jean arrived.  Jamie and I were sitting in the lounge recalling the events of the day and planning the events still to come.  It was rare that we ever sat still, but when you have vintage, bougie red velvet sofas, well, one just needs to enjoy them now and again, preferably with a glass of wine and good company.

Miss Jean was like a small child on Christmas morning as she looked with awe around the shop, you would never imagine she was in her early seventies.  Having grown up in Bessemer, she spent many weekends in the old McClellan building that was now home to Paisley Pig.  Of course, back then, it was a five and dime, a place to get a sandwich or a scarf, or both.  

"This is just like a miracle, you know... I was just driving around and then...BAM, you see this!  This is just gorgeous!  I can't believe this!  How have I not seen this?!?"

Poor Miss Jean could barely make a sentence, she was truly amazed that the building she thought was left hollow and forgotten was home to an eclectic, charming shop full of beautiful items.  

"I turned around in the middle of the street and ... Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.... I just found Christmas spirit!"

Miss Jean doesn't know it, but her visit that afternoon, her sweet reaction to our shop, her colorful way of telling stories of long ago, was a beautiful Christmas gift to each of us that work night and day to make Paisley Pig what it is today. 

We hope everyone finds the Christmas spirit this month, and if you are having difficulty locating it, just come over to our little corner of 2nd Avenue North.  We have plenty of Christmas spirit and spirits!

Click below to hear Miss Jean's reaction when she walked into Paisley Pig!

Webster's dictionary defines happy as delighted, pleased, or glad, as over a particular thing: to be happy to see a person, a happy mood; a happy frame of mind.

All of the above take place on our little corner of 2nd Avenue each day. It's rather difficult to walk through our doors and not be happy. I wrote in a social media post last year that I think of myself as a host of a fabulous party each morning as I drive to the shop.  It's my job to make sure each of my customers has a fabulous time while they're here. I set high expectations for myself and my vendors.  But alas, even the best efforts at achieving optimal party perfection are sometimes thwarted, as they were this past Friday.  In the blink of an eye I went from happy to feeling like Marlin in my son's favorite movie, "Finding Nemo", when he said to Dory, "good feeling gone."

I won't bore you with the details, but I will say that a customer left quite disappointed.  So much so, that she raised her voice to me for what seemed like an hour, but was probably no more than thirty seconds.  I held back tears while apologizing but I finally chose silence and just let her finish her rant.

I can't remember the last time I was spoken to that way.  No one likes to be yelled at, it's humiliating.  Once she left, I went to the back of the shop, had a quick cry, then pulled myself together. Like many women, I'm a pro at pretending everything is fine even when it's not.  I learned a long time ago that there's not much red lipstick and a pretty dress can't make right, even if temporarily, and I was in possession of both.

The rest of the afternoon went by smoothly.  However, in between customers I would hear that woman yelling at me and get teary eyed.  On the drive home that night, I convinced myself that she was just a bully and even if a unicorn shoved a magic wand where the sun cannot shine while Julie Garland sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow", she would still be a mean cotton-headed ninny muggin. ​

I may be fifty, but my insults still hover around ten years of age.  

The next morning was Saturday.  Autumn was in the air! And even though I woke up thinking about the horrible rant I received the day before and how I could make it right, I was not going to let it occupy my thoughts.  Well, I was going to try anyway.  I'm a Virgo after all, we over think everything.

The shop was filled with customers from the moment I opened the door.  Music filled the air, customers were dancing in place while shopping and I met a wonderful couple who, like me, were from California.  It was a beautiful day.  The hours flew by and just like that it was after five o'clock.

She stands about 4'11".  Her perfect bouffant hairdo, protected by no less than 15 ounces of Aqua Net, is from an era when women dressed up to run even the simplest of errands.  And Ms. Martha still does. Her saccharin sweet southern drawl is only outdone by the scent of Yves Saint Laurent Rive Gauche that fills the shop when she visits and lingers long after she has said goodbye.  I'm fairly certain this woman is Blanche Devereaux's Momma or perhaps a distant relative of Scarlett O'Hara.  

Ms. Martha comes into Paisley Pig twice a month after she has lunch at The Bright Star Restaurant.  As soon as she walks in, she comments on all my plants and flowers that are in front of the shop, and wastes no time informing me which ones need water and which ones I should just let her take home because they would look better in her garden.  This woman is all sass and I absolutely adore her.  

Her typical visit lasts about an hour.  However, half of that time she spends inquiring about my love life (or lack there of).  She reminds me that I'm not getting any younger and that "things are gonna start sagging sooner than later darlin', time is no longer on your side, don't wait too long".  I just smile and pour a glass of vino.  I always offer a glass of wine to Ms. Martha and she politely refuses, waits a few seconds and then says, "oh maybe just one little sip".

Ms. Martha is the last of my customers that still writes a check.  She refuses to use a debit or credit card and says she cannot spend her cash because that's her "mad money".  Trying not to laugh, I asked her why she needs mad money...

"Oh darlin', you just never know when you may need to leave town quickly".

This woman must have stories that would make even me blush.

Ms. Martha placed her items on the counter for me to ring up, and then fumbled through her purse for her check book.  As she began writing her check, she stopped and said, "hells bells, now I have to go by Piggly Wiggly on the way home!"  

"So you don't enjoy grocery shopping?" I asked.

"Oh, it's not that. It's just that I can't go home until I stop and get a few fresh fruits and vegetables or I'll have some explaining to do."

Since there was a line of customers, I chose not to inquire further about the grocery situation, although I was curious.

I took her check and put her items in a bag. It was one of our smaller bags, since Ms. Martha's purchase that afternoon consisted of three pairs of earrings, two of our homemade candles and a picture frame.  

"Now darlin', I'm going to need you to put my things in one of your larger bags." 

I knew better than to ask why she needed a larger bag.  But I was already smiling because I had a feeling that if I asked her why, her answer would be nothing short of hilarious.

"I certainly do not mind giving you any size bag you want, but can I ask why?"

"Look darlin', my husband is a nosy fool and he thinks I'm out grocery shopping right now.  He fusses at me for buying things he thinks I don't need.  One day last year when he was reconciling our checkbook, he asked me why there were so many checks written to the Paisley Pig. I told him to just hush, that the Paisley Pig is part of The Piggly Wiggly.  Now I have that old goat thinking your shop is where I buy our produce. I usually keep a few of your bags in my trunk, that way I just put the "groceries" in there."

Ms. Martha is my hero.

On any given day, the shop receives anywhere from ten to thirty phone calls.  The phone typically begins ringing sometime after 7:00 am and continues well into the evening. The topic of conversation is as varied as my vendors and often just as comical.  There's questions about our hours, the colors of Dixie Belle Paint in stock, would I like to buy their grandmother's china, can you ship furniture to Idaho, can you open at 5:30 am .... there's not much I haven't heard.

Until the other day.

The phone rang and on the other end was a customer I had spoken to many times before that week about a secretary (no, not that kind) and she wanted to know if it was still available.   I told her it was.  She said thank you and hung up rather abruptly.   A hour goes by and she called again...

"Is the secretary grey or white? Or is it an off white, maybe a beige?  It looks like it's grey in the photo.  It isn't cream is it?  I really need it to be grey, but an off white that looks grey would work."

After a long pause to make sure she wasn't just recharging for her next round of color inquisitions, I told her it was a soft grey.  BIG mistake.  That prompted a forty five second diatribe on the various possibilities of soft grey.  "Was it a dove grey, a stormy sky grey, a concrete grey", (I"m not making this up) ... when she took a breath I quickly interjected that the best thing to do would be for her to come to the shop and see it in person.  I explained that colors are often a matter of perception.  What is scarlet red to me, may be a burgundy to you. 

That last comment about sent her through her off white but not beige roof.  

"Wait, the secretary is also red?!?"

She made an appointment to stop by the next morning to see it in person.  We said goodbye and I giggled as I hung up the phone.  

Not five minutes went by and the phone rang again.  I recognized the number.  "God give me strength," I whispered to myself as I took a sip of vino and answered the phone....

"Hello, Paisley Pig, where the skies are never stormy grey and my lipstick is always red"...  (yes, I really answered the phone that way)

"I'm so sorry to bother you, just one more question..."  (apparently my humor was lost on her)

"Is it still 48" tall?"

This was too easy, I couldn't help myself... 

"No mam, it was 48" tall a few days ago, however, when we were sanitizing the shop last night, we washed it in hot water and it shrunk."

(Silence)

That should have been my cue to stop talking.  But if you know me at all, silence is the one virtue I never really grasped on to.  

"However, it is a bit wider than the last time you were here.  We have a new vendor who sells these fabulous cinnamon rolls, and well, we left a plate on the secretary and those sneaky little inches just kept adding on..."

Not realizing I was on speaker phone, I heard a deep boisterous laugh.  It was her husband...  

"She got you there hun!  Stop asking that poor woman so many damn questions and just go buy it already - and get some of those cinnamon rolls too!"

----------------------------

Note:  This story was written with the customer's approval.  She said she would be honored, but didn't want me to use her name.  Her husband, however, gave me her full name and offered to pay me if I used it in this story.  

I love our customers.

"You should write a book!"

I hear that at least twice a month after I've told my mom a story from the daily shenanigans that occur at Paisley Pig. The stories usually involve a comical interaction with a customer,  complete ridiculousness with the vendors during our 'after hours' shop reset or quite often, I'm simply left unsupervised and that is enough to fill a page with my hilarious mayhem and mishaps.  For example, last week as a first time customer was leaving, as she headed out the door she shouted, "this was just so much fun, thank you!"  And I replied back, quite loudly and in front of three other customers, "ok, I love you too".  

She has yet to return. 

Apparently expressing my love on her first visit was a bit much.  Note to self, refrain from  terms of endearment until after the customer's third visit.

Lesson learned.

I may one day write that book. But for now, I've decided to blog about what goes on inside these historic brick walls and share it with each of you.  These stories will make you smile, laugh out loud, cry just a little, drop your jaw or perhaps, all of the aforementioned at once. 

There is never a dull moment on our little corner of 2nd Avenue North... and now, you have a front row seat.

Stay Tuned!