Hats and Hellos

It seems to have been Hat Day at the Thrift Shop yesterday.  Hat after hat found a new head to call home, and some heads found numerous hats to call their own.  So, what sort of hats were people buying, this rainy afternoon?  Summer hats.  Hats to wear on walks around the neighborhood or while working in the yard.  Hats to wear while reading on the beach.  Hats to wear for golf or tennis or to the kids’ games.  Hats just to look fabulous in. 

     These were, pretty much without exception, not hats to wear in the rainy parking lot on the way to the bus or car or the walk home.  Nope, these were hats to save for when the sun comes out and summer settles in to stay, hopeful hats to wear when the good times roll.

     It also seemed to be Repeat Customer Day.  We’re not talking here about our regulars, the people we can count on seeing because they make the shop part of their routine.  Nope.  They were there, of course, but the repeat customers in question were those who made multiple purchases and, between the counter and the door, noticed something else. 

     Sometimes the shoppers left the store with their purchases, but got to thinking about what they hadn’t gotten, and came back for it.   Others didn’t leave the store between purchases, turning around immediately and getting right back in line with the additional item.  Or two items.  Or several.  One couple came through the line, together and separately, a total of three times each.  One customer, who also came to the counter three times, said, after the third time, “I’m just going to leave now, or I’ll buy something else.”

     Rascal, who is sixteen and a half years old now, is less and less interested in going out in the rain.  On a very rainy morning one day last week, he surveyed the court from the shelter of the porch and remained unpersuaded that the walking hour was at hand.  We got halfway around the court before Rascal looked me squarely in the eye and said, “Whose idea was this, anyway?” 

     We aborted our mission and came home.  Having toweled off the dog, I relayed his latest message—“I see no reason to leave the house at this time”–to my husband.  Then I left for French class.  That worked out rather well for me, I felt, but these things have a way of evening out.

     A sharp, peremptory bark from the dog yesterday morning came close to levitating both my husband and me from our chairs at the breakfast table.  It wasn’t the quit-bothering-me bark Rascal directs at the neighbor dogs.  Or the someone’s-at-the-door bark.  This was the dog’s the-end-of-the-world-is-at-hand bark.  Yes, the one that means a toy is under the furniture where he can’t reach it, and someone has to get it right this minute.

     That’s my cue.  And does El Doggo move to the side while I kneel or lie on the floor as necessary to find and retrieve said toy?  He does not.  Does he accidentally land it there while playing all by himself?  He does. We keep yardsticks under all the larger furniture, to extend my reach in these emergency situations.

     Today dawned cold and sunny; the dog was eager to be outside.  Young children and their families were en route to the elementary school, and a couple little girls were being noisy across the street from us.  The younger one made determined eye contact with me and smiled.  I smiled back.  The elder one joined her.  They sat down on the sidewalk in their little dresses.  Yikes!  Forty-three degrees!

     Then, when we pulled up even with them, they popped up to their feet and yelled, “HI!”  I smiled again and waved.  They dashed off to report their success to their mom, who was pushing a stroller toward school.

     My sister Carol and I did something similar when we were kids.  She and I were sitting in the way-back of the family car en route to a national park, on one of our month-long camping trips out west.  We decided to gesture to truck drivers that drove up behind us to blow their horns, and they did.  We were delighted.

     Dad was perplexed.  Getting back in the car after checking our car-top carrier for the umpteenth time, he said to Mom, “I don’t understand it.  Nothing seems to be wrong, but trucks have been honking at us for hours.”

     Carol and I were chagrinned.  Whether through cold sit-upons, separation from beloved toys, or parental bafflement, social contact can come at a cost.   

10 May 2024