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Description
On a pleasant, sunny Sunday afternoon, following days of chill rains, there was a small lady, dragging a large sign made of white poster board.  She was about thirty years old, with dark brunette hair and blue eyes that darted nervously back and forth.  She had a timid face speckled with freckles and carried the massive poster glued to a flimsy piece of wood.  The sign spelled out “PEACE NOT WAR” with big, bold, black letters.  It was more like a wall to hide behind seeing as it was over half her size.  Nevertheless, she looked absolutely ridiculous.  This story, however, is about the sign, which has a whole lot more to tell than a protest against the War in Iraq.  As the sign skidded carelessly across the worn, cracked sidewalk, it could not help but to question its purpose as it took in the mountain city life surrounding it.

The air was warm and full of excitement while the cement underneath was still a bit wet, darkening its shade to a charcoal grey.  While it was fairly depressing for the sign to be dragged through a dusty, damp street, and so far from the pure blue sky, he had no choice.  The journey began outside an overpriced hippie store named Terapins.  The window display was full of oddly high fashioned versions of luxurious Bohemian clothes.  A creepy old man with long grey hair and untamed facial hair was waiting inside for customers.  There were no people to be found in his store at that moment.  This probably explains why he seemed to scornfully glare at every person who was uninterested in what he had to offer.  The sign felt bad for a moment, but he figured there was not much he could do to help.  If a sign could shrug in dismay, I’m sure his corners fell a little limp at this point.  Another piece of gravel scratched his beautiful, white surface, as he moved on down the street.

Thank goodness he could not feel the pangs of guilt for long, because all of a sudden some college kids stumbled into him.  Apologizing to the owner, they laughed hysterically as they scattered away.  Having lived in Boone for a few weeks, and used to the antics of the typical student, the sign quickly realized a big game must have just ended.  Suddenly he was aware that everyone was wearing the popular black and gold colors of the area, and the students were roaming everywhere.  They were unashamed to be sloppy drunk and screaming with angst and pride.  Surely the streets seemed crazier than usual.  More partiers kept bumping into the poor board, each one reeking of alcohol, tobacco, and a select few, weed.  A group of especially loco boys drove by, startling the sign as they screamed “Whoo, go ASU.”  Each guy was seemingly oblivious as to just how obnoxious he was being.  Some onlookers gave them the attention they were hoping for, yelling back more nonsense like “Mountaineers are number one!”  No one can understand just how bad the sign wanted to chuckle as he watched his owner holding back her own laughter.  She was trying not to crack a smile, purposely avoiding and ignoring the fame game at hand.  Instead of stopping to stare the lady just kept walking.

The walk was starting to get more interesting for the sign, even though by now he was slightly creased because of being fallen into various times.  Things got even better as the woman ducked into the semi-hidden entrance of the store Indo. The sign could not tell what she was looking for, due to being so low to the ground.  The room was cramped, especially for being so small, so the owner stopped in front of a slumped over guy for help.  She asked “Would you mind if I left my sign here for a second behind the counter?  I am having trouble getting through the aisles carrying it.”  Her voice was meek and shaky, and she got more nervous as she waited for a reply.  The shopkeeper was very unanimated as he shrugged his shoulders, grabbing the sign with one grubby, hairy, hand.  The second she turned around the shop owner tossed it behind him.

Hurt and anxious the sign looked around.  Taking a second glance at the burly man he realized the other arm was occupied by a baby of all things.  How such a rough and rugged man could be so gentle with his light haired son who was cooing away, was beyond the sign’s comprehension.  Scanning the rest of the dimly lit, musky room, there were rows and rows of long, flowing skirts of all different patterns and colors.  He watched as his owner flipped through a section of “Coexist” shirts that were mixed in with thin summer dresses and bikini tops.  A stand of multicolored Jamaican beanies seemed to catch his owner’s eyes for a while before she moved on to electric toned hair dyes.  The sign could not even start to imagine why, knowing how conservative this woman is.  He continued his observances as she went on to the jewelry counter.  There were Celtic rings below dangling skull necklaces, peace signs, hemp bracelets, and jingling ankle jewelry.  Picking up one of the silver peace medallions that was hanging off of a thick, black rope, she ventured back to the counter to pay.  Grumbling under his breath, the man grabbed her change and blandly handed her the sign while returning his attention to his son.  The lady left quicker than the sign thought possible.

Directly outside there were nearby local women holding other signs with equivalent protests against the happenings in Iraq.  At this moment the sign realized what he was made for and sighed with relief at the site of fellow friends.  Inside of a dark, worn, brown, picket fence, surrounded a local community center, were about a dozen ladies, all holding signs.  All the ladies were standing at the top of ancient, white and grey stone steps. The women were scattered on these steps and through the freshly trimmed, Kelly green grass. He noticed they were dressed in frumpy clothes with either graying curls or thinning, overly-dyed, bleach blond buns.  They all had a sign of their own reading “War is not the answer,” or “We want peace, leave Iraq”.  One or two appeared to be the ring leaders while the other dozen mirrored this particular sign’s owner by simply looking on.  The ladies were almost lost to the cause as they tried to seem physically present.  They all seemed to be feigning enthusiasm while their eyes seemed dead and distant.  Quickly it was evident that the sign’s owner was definitely the youngest member of the group of protestors.

Having the advantage of young age ironically did not seem to give her more energy as she softly thrust the sign into the air.  From up on one of the higher steps he could see all of King Street.  There were cars, mostly reds, blacks, and whites, packed full of college kids.  He saw mothers and fathers leaving Appalachian pride stores with their tear stained faces, carrying their “My kid goes to App” bumper stickers. As more time passed he saw a young girl clasping her grandmother’s hand and a towering ice cream cone in the other as they left a nearby restaurant.  There was so much of the city to see and there seemed to be so much to do.  Unfortunately, once the sun started to set he had nothing more to do other than to follow his protestor back through the streets to what he thought would be here house.  By this time he was so excited, he was completely oblivious to where his owner was taking him.  You can only imagine his surprise as she passed a dumpster and threw him in!  He was embraced by darkness, stench, and overfed mountain rats!  Confused, terrified, and dismayed, there was nothing left to be said or seen.  He could only hope that some of the recycling maniacs would find a better home for him before the weeks end.