Everything Is Transitional

I. Greens & Oranges

I stopped off the bus at the nearby Kmart yesterday, in the rain, to buy greens to cook for a potluck work lunch today.
Kmart carries some basic fruit and veg, but, turns out, they don't carry greens.

I bought four navel oranges, priced 50¢ each.

At the check-out, the cashier had no code for single oranges.
(Almost every time I go to this Kmart there's some screw-up at the register. It's the worst store I've ever been to. Mr. Furniture would laugh at me and say, "What do you expect? It's the ghetto Kmart.")

The very young cashier solved the problem by ringing the oranges up as limes--only 33¢ each.

Thirty-three! That's how old Jesus is this Holy Week!
Could it be a sign? Of what?
(I don't believe in signs, but I love spotting them.)

And here's another sign of who-knows-what:

I sent Art Sparker a box of tiny things, as thanks for making signs for the store, 
and also because it's hugely fun to get together a box of tiny things.

I included a tiny flocked giraffe (from West Germany). 

Sparker wrote back that she already had one! 
 She sent me a photo of the pair.

And she posted photos on her Instagram of some of the other Tiny Things. 

Aaah! And another this morning--an assemblage of three items I sent, which she left on a telephone pole. 
Too dear! I have to share this! 

Walking home from Kmart, I passed an out-of-business grocery store (they would have had greens!), where street people hang out in the wide, protected vestibule––they've even dragged in old chairs to sit on.
Only one guy was there yesterday. 
I offered him an orange.

"Thanks," he said, "I just got out of the hospital a couple days ago for pneumonia".

"Well, then you need the vitamin C!" I said. "Looks like you need a raincoat too," and took off my plastic rain poncho. "Take this--I have another one at home."

II. White & Reds

I've noticed that if you give people money, generally they accept it without hesitation; 
but if you give a thing that clearly will leave you without––like mittens or a rain poncho, or, once, a muffin––often people are reluctant to inconvenience you by accepting.

"But you'll have to walk home in the rain," this guy said.

"Naw, it's just a couple blocks. If you've had pneumonia, you should have rain protection."

"I shouldn't be smoking and drinking beer," he said, which he was.

"Well," I said, "you've gotta have a life..." I hung the rain poncho on the chair.

He smiled. "You should be a psychologist," he said.

As I walked away, he called after me, "My name is Julius!"

"Fresca!" I called back.

I tell ya. This city I live in is rich, but you could give away necessities all day, every day. 
Once when I told someone about one of these exchanges, she said, "Doesn't that leave you feeling good!"

Well, but it doesn't.
It leaves me feeling overwhelmed by the need out there.

And yet, yes, it does.
Almost always, these are pleasant, human exchanges that leave me feeling warmed by the kindness of others. 
Last week during our spring-snow storm, I gave my bus transfer to a guy wearing a plastic bag at the bus stop.
He was carrying a beat-up bag, bulging with items.

I walked on and he came after me, holding out something he'd dug out of his bag.

"Here! I don't know what it is, but it's new! Some kind of face cream."

It was a little sealed pot of M&D Pharmacy Photo White, Brightening Face Cream, SPF 50.
Expired 12/2017. 
I looked it up--the brand is Italian (!), and this pot costs  €15.00.

Darn. Mayo Clinic says sunscreen does expire, and since this is two years past, I won't use it. 

I gave it to the Orphan Reds to play with.
They love it!
(Red Hair Girl has changed into her warm-weather wraps.)

III. Dreams of Paris

Speaking of the Reds, who were originally "Madeline" dolls---
I was so happy I'd been saving a plushy Madeline & her original book at my desk at work, so I could include her in a "Dreams of Paris" display I set up at work yesterday, around a Notre Dame tourist plate, which I was also happy (and amazed) that we had in the store.

Dreams of Paris is the name of the book to the far right, with the red "paris". It's a photo book from the 1960s.

I was distraught when I heard Notre Dame was burning [photos in the Guardian]––my mother had loved the cathedral––but that night I picked up Victor Hugo's Hunchback of Notre Dame, which I'd gotten from the library only the day before the fire because, honest, the library had a paperback copy of that title and the only hardback of Les Misérables––the book I'd wanted––was too heavy to hold. (A sign! A sign!)

I was heartened to read Victor Hugo pointing out that the cathedral "is not what may be called a complete monument... It is a transitional edifice", which has weathered "the wounds of Time; brutal violence from revolutions; and . . . a host of architects"!

Now it will have another story.

And now I must go to the Asian market to buy greens. I didn't go yesterday because I didn't have rain gear...

Have a lovely day!