Small Change

The shopping cart had one of those wheels that thunked with every rotation; at a moderate speed, it gave the impression of a tower of soup cans toppling, but of course I was stubborn.  I can live with this, no need to exchange carts, thunk thunk thunk, here I come.  Of course one would rather have the stealth cart, whereas you can sneak up on food in hunting mode as if you had to kill your own wildebeest for dinner, rather than merely sorting through styrofoam trays of prepared meat.  Not me.  Thunk.

I rounded corners on two wheels, zipped down aisles, I was on a mission and had to be in Canada in an hour; customs these days takes longer and I hadn't cleaned out the back seat of my car.  Clattered into the cashier's lane, loaded the conveyor, pushed up to the chip reader and hey.  There's a bill on the floor, a greeny, folded piece of cash, someone dropped a dollar.  Picked it up, unfolded, and was looking at the fuzz-faced 18th president, Ulysses S. Grant.  Fifty dollar bill, folks.

"I just found this on the floor," I said, while handing it to the cashier; both our faces reflected what finding fifty bucks means, and what it probably meant to the person from whom it slipped.  She called the manager, explaining that she thought she knew who dropped it, the lady two people ahead of me who was fumbling with wads of paper money from her wallet.  If they can trace back the number on the plastic card used for "bonus prices" that most customers have, she might be found; nonetheless, the fifty would be put in the vault.

Did I hesitate to turn it in, think of nonchalantly tucking in my purse?  You betcha, for maybe three seconds, but one of my jobs in this life is not to creep myself out, and that would have.  Truth, only three seconds of morality dancing, the time it took to rise from picking it up before I knew it was Unconditional Surrender Grant's denomination.  Even if it was only a buck, a fin, a sawbuck, a double sawbuck, I would have turned it in--coins, however, are fair game.

Was there a glimmer of angelic halo over my head as I put the bags in the car?  You know the feeling, at least I hope you do, after you've done a good deed without fanfare; it's okay to pat yourself on the back.  I thought Mom would be proud of me.  This illuminative glow above my head was completely lost on the customs guard, who grilled me as if I had my tires stuffed with body parts to sell at market.

My car is part of my storage room, besides the fact that carrying stuff through the parking lot and into the building is a part time job.  This is not appreciated by government on either side of the Niagara River, which led to my arranging objects the next day to make it look like there was less.  Like when you were a kid and pushed your vegetables around the plate, so wide swaths of ceramic real estate would separate the green beans boiled until they were grey further apart.  It would give the air that you did something, that you worked those green beans over, ingested the select, and were too full to complete the deed.  But, look at the space where there were vegetables!  Alakazam!

The winter shovel was still there, the IKEA footstool upside down for stability, the cardboard sheets to be hauled into school, the two bottles of on sale windshield washer fluid, cowboy boots that need to be reheeled, and two good sized boxes addressed to Tunisia all sat on the back seat.  What's in those boxes?  I told the officer.  She frowned a frown not so much that she didn't know what the object was, but that she disapproved of the kind of person who would send this frivolity.   I misread her expression, and proceeded to explain what the thing was, what you do with it, and she stopped me with an "I know" and then said, "I see a chair."

A chair?  Oh, the footstool that I bought from the thrift store, I haven't lugged it upstairs yet.

"Who drives around with a chair in their car?"  She was testy.  I just looked at her, patiently waiting for more; didn't she see my halo?  How quickly one falls from grace.  What are you bringing in with you?  Cat treats.  Cat treats?  Yes, the kind my friend's cat likes aren't sold here in Canada, so I'm bringing her two packs.  Who is this friend?  What's her name?  Where does she live?  Do you have any alcohol, firearms, or drugs?  Are you leaving anything in Canada?  Yes, cat treats.  By then, she just wanted me to be gone.

Have a good day, she mumbled, giving me my passport.  Because the same thing happened on the way back into the States, it was time to enforce organization to save future customs officers from apoplexy, so today I cleaned out my car with the push-your-vegetables-around-your-plate method, as I don't have  room in the apartment for most of the stuff.  I surprised myself by discovering that I'm driving around with three chairs, not just one.  There is the aforementioned IKEA footstool, which will make it home someday; a folding chair for sitting at beaches and parks, and a very portable folding camp stool for when I am in the quarry bashing open rocks, looking for trilobites.  Thank goodness no one was that irritated to have me pull over for a car inspection.  Three chairs, yikes.

The wind is in a tizzy, a tumbling gallop through branches and 'round corners, blustering and buffeting in a thousand voices.  I wonder how the birds hang on, where do they hunker down in a storm; yesterday I saw the tiniest fluff of a chickadee gathering material to construct a marvel, a nest.  In this newly green, vivid tulip world, you get distracted by the flowers and birdsong; only when storms roll in do you imagine hardship amid the fresh daffodils.

Sleep well as the earth changes from day to night, as shoots push further even in the dark, as seeds prestidigitate into searching roots and lifting heads.  Yes, you can use the word magic, for it is; a conjuring by the universe, the same one that created you with complexities and compassion, designed to be intelligent, to use our wisdom in safeguarding the smallest finch whose heartbeat matches our own.  To sleep, then, my dear, human friend.  Good night.