Mr. Cravitts’ Book Store

A book shop that is no longer there

If we had been good for a whole month, father gave us each fifty-cents. My brothers tripped over each other to get to the candy or ice cream cone shop first. I went to Mr. Cravitts’ Book Store instead.

When the door squealed open, Mr. Cravitts’ parrot squawked, “Go out. Come In.“

A crookedly lettered sign, 5 books for .50, hung over several shelves in the darkest, dustiest corner of the shop. I piled books on the floor, sat down to chose my dreams and adventures.

Too soon, the parrot excitedly “chimed” “You’re early. You’re late.”

Reluctantly removing books from my lap, I slowly unfolded my legs. With five treasures in my book-bag, I left my .50 cents on the counter, slammed the door behind me and ran for home.

Winter — open coat flapping. Fall — scarf unraveling.  Spring – rubber boots splashing. Summer — floppy hat slipping.

In my attic office, there is an old battered bookcase stuffed with ragged, torn and much-loved books. Mr. Cravitts and his book shop are gone, but not his treasures. A crookedly lettered sign stands on the top of the book case: 5 books for .50.


Written for the January 25, 2015 edition of Sunday Photo Fiction so creatively and capably run by Al.


brings tears to my eyes

95 01 January 11th 2015

The docks are part of my daily walk.

I stop for a snack.

Watch the watery movement.

When a wooden ship with masts and sails moors,

I get tears in my eyes.

So full of history

Family stories. Family history.

Crammed into steerage, my ancestors made the dangerous crossings.

Staking lives on the voyage for the chance at freedom; to a land with a magical horizon.

Green and golden yellow stretching out forever. Empty spaces. City skylines.

Full of promise. Full of hope.

But prejudice also made the voyage.

Voices spoke with contempt. Underlined with fear.

Vicious words. Physical attacks. Attempts at genocide.

Finding refuge with other outcasts of society.

Creating communities. Forming families.

Making a home for themselves.

Brings tears to my eyes.

Making a home for me.

Beneath your feet.

Up in your walls.

Never bored.

Never hungry.

Never alone.



Written on a whimsical Sunday for Sunday Photo Fiction, created by Al, the playful photo fictioneer.