Trading Post mh 11/22/98 I remember the guns for trade or sale, lining the walls. Being the son of my father I loved their textured feel, their precise sights, and their yet unheard sounds. They also sold or traded jewelry, multi-faceted gems worth killing for. Every Saturday my father took me, his new-born diamond, to that Mississippi trading post store. My favorite part of the trip was talking with Mr. Murphy, the wrinkled and gray World War II vet who sold baseball cards. I loved examining those cards, maybe trading a strong rookie for an old but smart veteran. If I shuffled my feet on that floor I could call up billows of dust among the peanut shells. I remember while Dad walked and talked about hunting and fishing, I sat on boxes of ammunition or leaned against the too-tall counter and talked with Mr. Murphy. Mr. Murphy would tell me about the old days, and I would tell him about Nintendo or Little League while I spent my allowance on a pack of people's faces and statistics. He liked to talk of the teams as opposing armies, their managers as pinstripe-decorated generals. The pennant race was a seven month campaign, a modern imperialistic crusade; the players were overpaid mercenaries. From his corner of the store we mapped out our ever-shrinking worlds. Near the end when he shook my young hand he grasped it so hard I thought I would cry. Only now I realize it was a show, a fighting facade against the cancer eating him inside-out. I remember Mr. Murphy would sit and watch the door, knowing that I must leave him eventually. I remember his deep steady drawled voice, telling me to come back.