Portrait of Barry

It was my first day off in nearly two-weeks.  I was going to Lander’s down the street and have a big bowl of chili and scrambled eggs.

“Finally I can do something fun”, I said as I got out of my truck.

But in order to get there, I had to walk past the Antique Mall and this was hazardous for me.  I have an eye like a raven, meaning shiny things catch my attention.

I walked past the window looking at the antiques in it.

“I’ll jus’ go in and have a quick look,” I said, “Then I’ll go get something to eat.”

Slowly, I wandered up and down the isles.  There was this thing to pick up and that one to touch.

An old rocking chair in the corner looked inviting so I sat in it. And as I did, I wondered, “How many babies have been rocked asleep in this chair?”

As I rocked back and forth, I scanned the room. Across from me was an aging portrait of a Calvary officer with a sign reading, “Portrait of Barry.”

I got up and walked over to the portrait.

The uniform was that of an officer — a Lieutenant Colonel in the light Calvary.  It was also a post Civil War uniform.

The man’s face was familiar to me, but I couldn’t recall where I had seen him before. So I walked away to continue my browsing, hoping to allow my brain to relax enough to remember who the man in the picture was.

It suddenly dawned on me and quickly walking back to the portrait, I removed it from the wall.

“How much is this?” I asked of the woman behind the counter.

“A hundred and fifty bucks,” she answered.  Then she added, “But I’ll knock ten percent off it if you buy it right now.”

I nodded my head and reached for my back pocket.

The cash register was an antique as well, and it rang loud and hard as she pulled the lever back.  The gears ground against one another and banged as they came to a stop.

“You do know who this is, don’t you?” I asked the lady at the register.

She squinted through her bifocals, “It says ‘Portrait of Barry,’ whoever Barry is.”

Chuckling, I replied, “No, Barry’s the photographer.”

The lady looked at me skeptically.

“I knew I had seen the face before,” I stated, “In real life this man had deep blue eyes.”

The lady walked over to where I was standing.  She looked at the picture, then up at me.

“How can you tell that from an old sepia tone?” she asked.

“Because I know my history — and I seldom forget a face,” I answered, “This man died in 1876 at the Battle of Greasy Grass.”

“What?”  The antique lady countered.

“Greasy Grass,” I answered, “But we know it better as the Battle of the Little Big Horn.”

“I’m not following,” she replied, sounding a bit frustrated with me.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel George Armstrong Custer, Regiment Commander, C Company, 7^th Calvary, United States Army,” I stated.

The lady stood there with her mouth agape unable to say anything. She knew she had jus’ unwittingly sold a little piece of history.