Years of formation, washed upon the shores of Australia, picked for its near perfect palm sized comfort; who knows how long this rock lay. Displaced but passed with affection from one to another, it found its way to St. Paul, Minnesota. Broken knees to broken hearts, yet somehow, this heart of stone, mended but never fully recovered. Rock solid heart of mine.
Yes, I indeed lost my good luck charm. So what happens next? Earthquakes in Minnesota? Silly superstitions, but it was a rock, something to hold on to, and now it is out there, either with someone else, or by itself and the meaning, the significance has been lost. SNIFF. This was no four leaf clover, no rabbit's foot, no beer bottle cap, no St. Christopher's medal. This was my rock, far from perfect, picked on a distant shore, with me in mind; and it has been carried on my person since. Now I got to go it alone. Losing another part of the heart. Bring out the old, ring in the new, the cleaning lady leaves you behind, with so much further to go. It isn't exactly the way I want it to be, but as time goes by you learn you can't always get what you want. Anxious about the impending unraveling that surely must follow? A wee bit.
It's not that I actually believe in such nonsense, but why tempt fate? The next test? The young lass that my heart has begun to pitter patter for, the sports babe that even my marginal softball skills have tried hard to impress- well I called her up last week. Seemed a bit like high school, (is she sweet on you?) but the nerves held on as we spoke and as my hand reached for the rock as it has so many times in the past. She had missed the game and I pulled my groin. So who would have thought we would end up talking about the condition of my groin on our first call? Not exactly what I had in mind. Even for me that seemed slightly embarrassing. But this could be the start of a beautiful friendship; she lent a sympathetic ear, and listened to the crisis du jour. Just another hard rock story.
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BARBIE UPDATE: Dad returned to Target to check the progress of his venture into activism. Sure enough, as promised the sales price of the white Barbie doll was brought down five dollars to match its black counterpart. All dolls are created equal... But seriously, it was good to see my father get worked up over something that I think I would have just shook my head over. He told Target that the issue wasn't paying five dollars more for the same doll just because of its skin color; the issue was the message, the one that drifts through so much of our culture, that is ever so subtly forced upon us. Ebony and Ivory may live together in perfect harmony on your piano, but geez Pedro, the black keys are fewer in number, and smaller in size. If we don't fight the underlying messages on the simple things, i.e. toys, then we might as well not even bother with the larger, more overwhelming issues.
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LANDFILL AFTERNOON: One of my least favorite regular customers came in Saturday. I don't know what it is about this fellow, but he just rubs me the wrong way (don't touch me), and every time I see him come in the door, my upper lip automatically curls. Now having had only brief conversations earlier in the day with Al and Denise, it occurred to me I had not spoken for most of the day, and having the newsletter ahead in the evening, I figured I wouldn't really have much contact with people all day long. Well, this customer approached me and started asking a whole mess of questions. At first I was irritated, he was asking me if we had certain titles, which as anyone who has been in Landfill knows, is like looking for a lost lucky rock. I tried to be as polite and helpful as I could, but quite frankly I was being kind of short (my natural stature). But something strange happened. As we got talking about music, I started enjoying the contact, the conversation. I saw this person in a different light, and as he walked out with his usual $2.00 purchase, I genuinely looked forward to his next visit.
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