In Search of Sam by Kristin Butcher

aisles between are brimming with shoppers. There are easily three hundred people.
    I ease my way into the crowd and am instantly swallowed up. I smell fresh-brewed coffee and suddenly remember that I haven’t had mine yet. I spy the coffee urn a few tables away, but the crowd is moving at a snail’s pace, and there’s no way to push through, so I busy myself examining the wares until coffee is within reach. In no time I’m so absorbed with what I’m looking at and the people I’m talking to that I completely forget about coffee.
    The bazaar has something for everyone. For culinary types there are spices, recipe books, aprons, fridge magnets, and pot holders. For those who are more interested in eating there’s a popcorn machine and a doughnut-making machine, as well as several tables selling fudge and baked goods. There’s stained glass, handmade quilts, homemade soap, candles of every shape, size, and colour, garden sculptures, paintings, stuffed toys, baby clothes, stationery, and puppets. Several tables are selling jewellery, so I buy a bracelet for my mother and earrings for myself. I can’t leave Reed out, so I buy him some of George’s preserves. Apple butter for sure, as well as blackberry jam, strawberry compote, and red pepper jelly. The old man I met the day I arrived in Farrow is selling intricately carved walking sticks. They are so beautiful I wish I had a reason to buy one. In addition to the items for sale, there are displays strategically placed among the tables: a photo history of the village, a collection of town artifacts, and a diorama of a long-ago mining operation.
    There is so much to see, I can barely take it all in. The people manning the tables all have a story to tell, and I quickly realize how close everyone in the community is. The town may not be much to look at, and it may not have a large population, but its roots run deep and its residents are like a large family.
    A pottery table is last, which is a good thing, because if I’d seen it when I first came in, I might have spent half my inheritance at it. Even though the morning isn’t over, most of the pieces remaining have “sold” stickers.
    â€œOh, my god,” I gush. “Everything is so beautiful.” Different than anything I’ve seen before. “Is it all done on a wheel?”
    The young woman behind the table nods. “Mostly. There are a few pieces of slab work, though nothing here right now.” She shrugs. “Sorry. We had no idea the pottery would be so popular. We didn’t bring enough, but we’ll be restocking for the afternoon.”
    â€œReally? I’d love to buy a piece. Do you have any more bowls like this one?” I run my fingers around the rim, thinking of my mom. She could use some of these pieces in her interior design business.
    â€œSimilar, yes. Each piece is individually crafted, so no two are exactly the same, but I’m sure we have something you’ll like. The new stock should be here by one o’clock.” I glance at my watch. It’s almost eleven thirty. I have to leave in half an hour if I want to catch up with the flower lady at the cemetery.
    I bite my lip. “Unfortunately, I have an appointment, and I don’t know how long it’ll take. Do you have a business card? Your work is gorgeous, and if I can’t get something today, maybe I could get hold of you after the bazaar.”
    â€œOh, I’m not the potter,” she says quickly. “I’m just helping out. But I’ll pass your compliments along.” She ducks down under the table, and when she pops up again, she hands me a green embossed card. “Here you go,” she smiles, “in case you don’t get back.”
    â€œThanks very much.” According to the card, Alex Burke is the potter. I stuff the card into my pocket.
    Exit Here , reads a huge sign over a set of open double doors at the back of the hall, so I