You never know what you’ll learn at the Thrift Shop. Usually it’s customers who enlighten us, breezing by the counter when we’re trying to figure out the function of some donated item or how something works or the last three lines of the poem about the penguin. (“He can hold in his beak/ Enough food for a week./ But I’m damned if I know how the helican.”) Yesterday, a staffer was the source of information.
The shop was having a sale of all things rock-and-roll and, in the wending way of conversations, the Beatles song “Eleanor Rigby” rose to the fore. Soon all three of us clerks were trying to remember the lyrics. In short order, other staffers joined the effort, variously reciting or quietly singing parts they remembered. Very shortly after that, customers and staffers whipped out phones for faster answers, everyone being terribly pleased once the lyrics were in hand.
It was after that little rush of enthusiasm Lee made her announcement to Abby and me.
“You know Father McKenzie in that song? That was my grandfather. St. Peter’s in Liverpool was our family church, and he served there.”
Now, Abby and I already know Lee is way cool—I mean, the Rolling Stones used to play at her skating rink—but this tidbit definitely added to her luster. We got to thinking about the lyrics, however, and felt a little bad for her and for her grandfather that he should be remembered for “writing the words to a sermon that no one will hear.”
I looked at the lyrics again today, though, and it wasn’t Father McKenzie’s fault that no one heard his homily. It was just that no one showed up for Eleanor Rigby’s funeral.
When asked yesterday about Father McKenzie “darning his socks in the night when there’s nobody there,” Lee assured us that was apocryphal; her grandfather wasn’t given to any such pursuit. All the same, you have to imagine he took a ribbing for it when the song came out.
We joined neighbors last weekend for one of our periodic wine-and-cheese gatherings, the second since the death of one of our number. It’s not the same without him—not by a long shot. Surprisingly, though, his absence increases our urge to get together, as if to reassure ourselves that the rest of us are still here.
We got to talking about how gorgeous the snow had been as it fell, enormous flakes drifting through the air on their way down. Specifically, we contrasted that snow with the fake snow trying to simulate the real thing on, say, the Hallmark Channel. We do not diss the Hallmark Channel. We diss the fake snow, which appears to have the consistency of soap flakes.
We further diss the fake representation of winter. People in cold places, as opposed to people in places they’re pretending are cold, zip up their jackets and wear their mittens and hats. They shy away from high-heeled boots if they’re going to be walking any distance in snow, because real snow is slippery. As is real ice, which doesn’t seem to figure at all in fake winter. Furthermore, people who have been outdoors in actual winter become pink of cheek. Pretend winter has no such effect. There’s willing suspension of disbelief, and then there’s a stretch too far.
Real snow is coming down again today, but regrettably not the beautiful kind. The temperature is low enough that the flakes are dry, and don’t clump up with lots of other flakes as they fall. Worse, the snow is blowing around in great cold veils. The only clumps today are leftovers of wet snow on the trees and bushes that get blown down when the wind comes through.
More than one of us at the wine and cheese confessed to having had thoughts of filming the beautiful snowfall to send to folks who’ve forgotten, or perhaps never, known what winter looks like. What’s happening outside now doesn’t bear documenting, and the Hallmark Channel probably doesn’t want its audience to think about days like this.
The dog didn’t much want to think about it on our walk this morning. After a few blocks and as many chunks of ice melt getting stuck in his paws, he let it be known that turning around and going back to the house would be fine with him. Once we got home, I took off his penguin sweater and gave him his treat, and he cheered right up. Then he dashed off to choose a squeaky ball and set about repairing the general mood. He believes a squeaky ball makes everything better.
16 January 2026