Lucy and I share a love of thrift-shopping. Rather then browsing at
the mall we are likely to be making the "rounds" of the dozen or so
charity-run shops within a half-hours' drive of our home searching racks of
discarded clothing and shelves of books, CDs and DVDs for "something
good". We don't (usually) spend a great deal of money on these
expeditions; the thrill, it seems, is in the hunt rather then the kill...
I think everyone, has had the experience of finding something for sale,
deciding against buying it, and then having second thoughts the next day.
Sometimes the item is still on the shelves when one returns to the shop, often
it has been sold in the intervening days. When this happens--a hesitation
followed by disappointment when the item in question is gone--the departed
"great deal" assumes far higher value in ones' mind than might be
considered reasonable. Or rational.
I've been victim to this psychological escalation more than a few times over
the years; that volume or gee-gaw seems much more important because I
hesitated and decided not to buy it, then changed my mind only to find it no
longer available upon a second visit. It happens, and in most cases ends
with my shrugging off the incident, casting a few desultory hexes at the lucky
soul who has made off with MY "item", and resolving not to make the
same mistake in future (knowing full-well that I will).
This week, however, the circumstances were a little different, and to me worthy
of note.
As a way of escaping the insanity of the pre-Christmas chaos Lucy and I
decided to hit the shops a few days back. We weren't alone; many
thrift-shopppers were abroad that afternoon, but we enjoyed visiting a few of
our favorite haunts: the Goodwill, Disabled American Veterans (DAV), and even
the CHKD provided inexpensive shopping experiences as we browsed the day away.
It was in the Denbigh DAV that I ran across that proverbial
"item". It was a coffee table, only a foot tall and three feet
square, thick and sturdy. I immediately homed in on it as a candidate for
a support for one of my telescopes, a job I had attempted to fill previously
with very limited success.
The table was worn but rock-solid; I tested this by performing a few
push-ups on it, which for some reason attracted curious stares from other
shoppers. It seemed perfect for my purposes, and its worn state
would make no difference. A done deal, right?
Then...hesitation. Doubt. Second-guessing. I began to think
of the un-finished projects cluttering my den and the dis-organised mess of the
observatory. I thought about money; should I spend dosh on this battered
piece of furniture after my rather profligate expenditures of recent
months. Standing over the table I indulged in a moment of soul-searching.
I turned away.
Oh, foolish mortal!
Of course I began to question my decision that very evening.
Observing the moon from the backyard on that very evening I began to consider
the utility of that table; by placing my Dobsonian-mounted 10-inch reflector on
it I would raise the telescope by a foot, making its use easier by placing the
eyepiece and finder-scope at a level where I wouldn't have to perform the limbo
to aim and use the big 'scope. Why, the table's introduction would make
my "Dob" much more usable!
I resolved to re-visit the Denbigh DAV at the first opportunity.
Which, of course, would be the 26th of December. Boxing Day.
Early on the 26th I headed toward Denbigh, my plan being to arrive at the
doors of the thrift store at the very moment of their opening for
business. By this time the "item" in question--a beat-up,
twenty year old coffee table, had assumed nearly cosmic importance for
me. I had to try again,to correct my error of two days before,
seize that battered piece of furniture if it was still available, and make it
part of my observatory equipment.
I drove westward on Route 60, and turned into the DAV's parking lot.
Soon I would know if the "item" was still in stock. Soon, if I
were lucky, I would be heading home with it. Soon.
The table wasn't there.
Or rather, it was in the DAV store.
It was the store itself that was gone.
The familiar building was blackened, windows shattered, the doors gaping wounds
in the smoke-smudged facade. I braked to a halt short of the yellow tape
enclosing the perimeter of the structure and choked on the thick miasma of smoky
air surrounding the structure. Gone the bustle of bargain-hunting
customers, gone the helpful and friendly faces behind the counters, gone the
cloying holiday music. Through gaping doors I could just make out piles
of fire- and water-damaged merchandise, now only debris to be cleaned
away.
The building had burned in the early hours of Christmas Day, only hours
after my resolution to return in search of the sturdy table. The
investigation was on-going, but there was already talk of arson. Now that table
was burnt and broken inside the scorched building, placing into new and stark
perspective my own, small obsessions and desires.
I paused to talk to a few employees of the store, there to help with
clean-up. In their faces I saw sadness and anger, confusion and rage
against what could only be an unexpected, even monstrous event on what was meant
to be a happy day of celebration.
How had this happened, and what lay ahead for these people who had relied
upon this store for their livelihood? What would the charity organization
that employed them in order to do good for others be able to do for them
now?
I had driven out to Denbigh with only personal, petty concerns of my
own. Making my way home in the afternoon I found myself caught up in the
pain of a holiday season gone terribly wrong for good folks with far more
important worries than I. A lesson in proportion, yes, but a terribly
expensive one for far too many people.
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