Quite unexpectedly, my husband got 2024 off to an auspicious start on New Year’s Day. Having decided on scrambled eggs for breakfast, he selected a couple of jumbos from the carton, and cracked them into a bowl. Then he called me over to look. Both the eggs had double yolks. I thought maybe he’d switch what he wanted, to sunny-sunny-sunny-sunny-side up, but he didn’t.
Working my shift at the Thrift Shop, yesterday, I learned that people all over town have been busy keeping New Year’s resolutions, at least the ones about tidying up. How could we tell? By the throngs of people ringing our back doorbell and delivering mountains of donations. It’s been going on all week. One of the volunteers who works the back room, processing all these generous gifts, joked about it after the shop closed yesterday.
“Toward the end there, I wanted to talk people out of donating. ‘Have you thought of dropping all that off at the Salvation Army?’” She was just joking, of course. We couldn’t keep doing the work we do without those donations.
Out front at the checkout counter, people remarked on how virtuous they’d been about clearing things out of their homes and donating them to our shop. And how they’d now made a good start on filling their places back up with the delightful purchases they were making. They were most cheerful about it.
In the customers’ defense, our merchandisers had organized an international event and filled the shop with treasures. Interestingly, sometimes the purchasers of these treasures were cultural outsiders who simply admired the objects they found, and sometimes the purchasers were, themselves, from the cultures represented and stocking up on items not always easily available stateside. The university attracts students and faculty from all over the world, and a number of them were smiling as they left the shop yesterday.
Even before arriving at the shop, I knew folks were out doing righteous things, in keeping with New Year’s resolutions. Our car informed me, on the way to the shop, that the right rear tire was low, so I tootled over to the service station to give it some air. I was unsuccessful in that foray. Four cars were in line for the air pump. I’ve never seen anyone in line there, before. My surmise is that the drivers had resolved to stay on top of tire pressure in 2024. I waited as long as I could, but ultimately had to leave for the shop before my turn arrived.
Back in our neighborhood, earlier in the week, Rascal and I came across Rhonda and her dog McGill while we were all out walking. We walked along together companionably, pausing here and there and chatting. I paused once to pick up some pink stones from the garden on the southwest corner of Georgetown and Rumsey. I tossed them back where they belong, without much thought. Rhonda looked at me incredulously and asked, “Do you pick up stones from this garden?”
“Sure,” I answered. “These people went to considerable fuss and bother to bring us this lovely garden. If I can help out by putting their stones back where they go, I’m happy to do it, and they will never even know.”
To my surprise, Rhonda responded with, “I do, too! Someone put one of those stones on top of the big rock across the street, and I had to bring that stone back over here and put it where it belongs.”
Earlier in the week, Mary and her dog Willy walked along with Rascal and me, and I showed her the gorgeous plant in a garden on Georgetown. It has small, bright purple berries that grow in clusters that look like flowers, so even in the winter, the plant looks as if it’s blooming. We oohed and aahed and, at the same moment, it occurred to both of us that her son is a horticulturalist. Mary snapped a photo and sent it to Isaac, asking for an ID.
It came back promptly. Pollicarpa, which means beautiful fruit. Fine name. I looked up pollicarpa when I got home, hoping it’s native to this area. It’s not. It’s a southern plant. One website said the plant is so unlikely to thrive here that one shouldn’t even try. Good thing those folks on Georgetown didn’t heed that advice.
On the other hand, the red-berried plant I showed Sue today is native to Michigan. She used her app to identify it as winterberry, also known by many other names, including Michigan holly. Furthermore, the plant came from a nursery in Mason, Michigan. Road trip in the spring!
5 January 2024