my parents owned a store in clarksville called in pots and print, where my mom sold a combination of plants and old books. when they closed the store, my parents kept the sign from the window and a bunch of leftover bookmarks, which still show up as scrap paper and in random books to this day.
i remember in pots and print as a bit dark and musty and smelling of soil. mom sold sensitive plants that closed to the touch, and i couldn't resist running my little finger along their leaves to watch them respond. npr played on the radio in the shop, and a very young age i learned to recognize the melody that introduces "all things considered."
the store had a back room, where my brother raleigh and i played as toddlers. mom made us ketchup sandwiches for lunch, and we preferred it when she folded the bread over instead of cutting it in half, so we could bite through the fold and squish the ketchup through the semicircle bitemark in the white bread. we played with neighbourhood kids in the alley behind the shop, and robert ackerman laughed at raleigh and told him sandals were for girls.
