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Spots of History January 30 2006 I met Paulette at the Cypress College swap meet. I almost walked by her. I was looking for broken fence parts, doll heads, and pieces of clocks. I hunt for junk. A history of someone else's past. Paulette's spot of history was on top of a table. A box of letters un-organized and addressed to Janice. I stopped and touched the letters. The new owner said, "they were a dollar a piece, people collect them for the stamps and I have already sold three this morning." Collected for the stamps! The letters were dated from 1963 to 1968. Cancelled stamps from that time are almost worthless. The envelopes were decorated with drawings of the Beatles, cartoons and doodles of flowers. Letters were folded creatively, mailed out with an envelope and written with different color ink. I made a quick count - 200 letters at $1.00 a piece. My attention moved to the next table. Several hours later walking through the cornfields of discards my Frida Kahlo tote was full. My husband had to take the bag and became my swap meet sherpa. On the way back to the car I told him about the box of Paulette history. He said, "show me." We both share a passion for peaking. Touching the letters a second time I slowed down making secret contact with the past. A clean invasion of privacy. Open personal mail not locked in a drawer. My fingertips absorbed the ink and paper, the jagged openings, round post marks with dates time and location. She had written five years of history I didn't have. I wanted Paulette's letters. It was time to negotiate the price. While shopping at swap meets you don't let the vendor know how much you want one item. Attention is diverted to other things sitting on the table. "What's the price of this old Mickey Mouse watch, this rhinestone necklace and oh, this box of letters. The watch $300, the necklace $120 and the letters, well, its the end of the day - $25. Can you take $20? Deal. Quote letter 1963--1964 My history was different. The summer of 63 I lived alone with my brother. Our family was parceled out on a surveyor's map through out Arizona. My mother married a man she met at the bank. She forgot to tell him part of his inheritance was five kids. Mr. Tim the banker, married Pat, my mom for money. The teller's window was the playing field and they had the same goal. The toggled kids would be brought into the game at [[strikethrough]] the [[/strikethrough]] half time. The banker never came over to our clubhouse. A family barbecue would have given him the right head count. He was an adding and subtracting kind of guy.