Marshall Ramsey

The old Chevrolet Impala was as long as a battleship and contained as much steel.  The little boy climbed into the backseat and plopped down. He wore a suit and his face wore a grin.

Today was the big day. Today was the day he was going to the airport.

His grandfather opened the door for his grandmother. She climbed into the passenger seat, turned around and asked her grandson, “You excited?” The smell of her perfume tickled his nose.  The little boy nodded rapidly. In his joy, he had forgotten how to speak.

The little boy loved airplanes. He knew everything about them including their names, their histories and how they looked.  On that hot summer day in 1974, his grandparents were going to take him to city’s airport to watch commercial flights take off and land. Like the planes that soared into the sky, the little boy was as close to Heaven as you can get on this earth.

The Impala crunched over the gravel driveway and his grandfather turned right onto the street.  They headed toward the big city and before you could say, “Orville and Wilbur Wright,” the big Chevrolet was parked in the airport’s hourly lot.  His grandfather opened his door and said, “C’mon. We have some jets to see.”

“Can I get a Coke, too?” the boy asked hopefully.

“Don’t push your luck.” his grandfather teased.

The boy held each of his grandparents’ hands.  They walked into the brand-new terminal, passed through security and went up to the observation area.  There was a Delta Boeing 727 taking off!  And one of the cargo airlines had a Douglas DC-3 starting to taxi out to the runway.  A Douglas DC-9 approached from the far end of the field. Across the runway, he could see the Air National Guard base.  There was something magical about this airport. People boarded planes and traveled the globe.  Every flight represented adventure. Every flight took the passengers to a new life.

Another DC-9 pulled up to the gate.

The little boy couldn’t be happier.

Thirty-seven years later, a little boy had grown up into a weary traveler. Back in town on business, he walked into the same airport and looked around.  Memories flooded his soul. His beloved grandparents had died long ago. He took a breath.  He swore he smelled his grandmother’s perfume. He closed his eyes and dropped his carry-on bag. And then, he felt his grandparents holding his hands. He looked to his right and then to his left and saw them smiling back at him.  For a brief moment, they had come back alive.

All the hassle of flying faded away. He had become the little boy who saw airports as places of adventure. And as he headed toward his gate, he let go of  his grandparents’ hands and waved goodbye. They smiled and waved back. Then they faded into the crowd of weary passengers.

He boarded his flight back home and felt his heart soar like the planes climbing into the sky.

If you’re driving south of Mobile,  you’ll drive right past the Thrift Shop.  Located near the Alabama Gulf Coast, it’s in a nondescript concrete-block building. But inside its plain walls are incredible secondhand treasures. (Proceeds from which help feed the poor and clothe the needy.)  But what no one knew was that one of the greatest treasures of all time was sitting on a dusty shelf in the back of the store between a Magic 8-ball and a Stretch Armstrong.

On May 11, 2012, the estate of Mr. Jacques de Molay was officially settled. His great niece and nephew had brought the last of his earthly possessions to the thrift shop in an old cardboard box.  There was a waffle iron, an alarm clock, a cat clock whose eyes moved with its tail, a book of French poems and an old, weathered chalice.

Jacques had lived a long and fascinating life. Living near Paris, he fled his beloved France with only the clothes on his back (and a small suitcase.) The Germans had invaded his home country and while many of his former classmates had chosen to join the resistance, he had decided to run. As he sat in a pub in a bombed out section of London, he spun a globe to pick a place to be as far away from the war as possible. His finger landed on the sleepy Southern port city of Mobile, Alabama.

But even half a world away, Jacques had a hard time escaping the Nazis. As his steamer approached the mouth of Mobile Bay, it became a target for a German U Boat.  Two of U-106’s G7 torpedoes ripped through the freighter and once again, he escaped with only the clothes on his back (and his small suitcase.) His lifeboat washed up (along with much of the ship’s debris) on what is now known as Orange Beach.  As burning debris flickered on the horizon, Jacques struggled to convince the Baldwin County sheriff that his accent wasn’t German. Jacques was lucky he wasn’t shot that night.

Seventy years passed quietly.  Jacques never married and lived modestly in a small bungalow near Point Clear. He was a Godly man who attended regular Mass and volunteered to work with the poor. His brother’s daughter had emigrated from France after the war and lived up the road in the small town of Fair Hope. She had married a boy from Wilmer and they had two children — a boy and a girl.  Both reluctantly looked after their aging great uncle after the niece and her husband passed away in a car accident on Hwy. 98.  And both children secretly hoped being named in their great uncle’s will would mean a big inheritance.  One night, he hinted at  “The greatest treasure of all time would be theirs to guard.” Greatest treasure? They fantasized about gold bars and lots of cash.  Their greed made them blind to the true fortune in their grasp.

Jacques suddenly died from pancreatic cancer.  In February, he was diagnosed. By April, he was lowered into the rich Alabama soil. His initial reaction to the dire prognosis was, “I’ve lived a long life and it is time to let go.”  And a few weeks later, his last words to his great niece and nephew were, “The cup.” They had no clue what he was talking about.

The day came when the two found out about their great fortune. They had inherited the grand sum of $13,432 each, his house and the possessions within. Both walked out of the lawyer’s office shaken and visibly angry.  They immediately drove to Point Clear and picked over his old bungalow for anything remotely valuable. They then threw the remaining items into an old box and drove as fast as they could to the Thrift shop.  Jacques’ great nephew slammed the box on the counter and said in a huff, “Gimme a receipt for my taxes.” The lady behind the counter, a red-headed woman who appeared to be close to 40, looked up from her Jane Austen novel and smiled. Miss Agatha Harkey said, “Yes sir. Thank you for your donation. You’ve really helped the sick and the poor.”

Little did she know how right she was.

The cat clock sold first.  Considered a classic, the couple from Atlanta had paid full price for it. (It was worth 10x what it was listed for and was quite a steal.)  A young married couple from Pensacola bought the waffle iron for a good price.  Agatha Harkey had bought the French book of poems for 50 cents. She was smitten with the French language and wanted to read her favorite poems in her favorite tongue. No one wanted the battered old chalice, but then again, who would? It’s beauty wasn’t on the outside.

It was a cloudy June afternoon in Orange Beach.  Agatha sat on the Gulf’s edge, reading her little book of poems.  The red beach flag popped against the dark gray sky.  Storms rolled just off shore, sending in rip currents and massive waves.  It nearly gave her the beach to herself — a rarity for a June Friday afternoon. She loved reading Jacques’ name in the inside cover. She loved how the words rolled off her tongue so effortlessly. And on that cool June afternoon, she noticed something strange on page 100. There, written in Jacque’s own hand, were the words, “Knights of the Templar.”  Pieces began to fall in place one after another.  Jacques de Molay had a secret.  A secret that almost went to the grave with him.

His job was to guard something.  But what? She read the book and found another clue — a folded piece of yellowed paper. It was a poem by the 12th century French poet Chretien de Troyes. She read it and her jaw dropped. It was about the Holy Grail.  Could Jacques have been guarding the Grail?  Could that be why he fled Europe during the war?  Was that why he ended up near Mobile, Alabama?  Was he afraid it would fall into Nazi hands?

The Holy Grail, the chalice used by Jesus during the last supper was sitting in the Thrift Shop!  She slammed the book shut and ran back to her car.  She had to get back to the shop — and now!  The tourists checking out of their rental properties and clogging the highway would just have to get out of her way.

Agatha Harkey became an honorary member of the Knights of Templar that day. She swore on her life that she’d protect the cup.  She bought it for $5 and kept it safely in a safe in her home.  And while she continued to work at the Thrift Shop, she also began volunteering at the Children’s Hospital.  Every day after work, she and her old cup would visit the terminally ill children.  And every day after work, miracles happened for kids who truly needed a one.

Jacques de Molay‘s cup was indeed the greatest treasure of all time. And only someone as good as Agatha Harkey would know the true power of the chalice in the Thrift Shop.