Sunday afternoon

Being part of the holiday show at Feet of Clay involves paying for the privilege and then fulfilling tasks. Yesterday I was the wrapper from 12-5. It was a rather slow day which was fortunate for the cashier who had a headache that was worse than splitting and shouldn't have been there. 

A friend came in and I gave her the dish that she wanted to buy and she didn't fuss, for which I was grateful. I won't sell enough to repay myself for the fee and am absolutely finished with this. But this 'I told you I am not depressed' plate did sell...and so that person has to have a sense of humor. 

The good thing about being there is that a friend of mine, who is moving to New Mexico, has been selling like a bandit -- casseroles, cups, plates, platters, a teapot and little soap dishes. She is always so delighted to whisper how much she's made and I'm glad for her, happy to wrap her attractive, practical ware that makes good gifts.

While I was standing around, waiting, I made notes for a poem from an article in the Times that I'd found in the stack of papers laid out to wrap purchases in. The headline is Stray Bullet From Street Fight Kills Longtime Bronx Volunteer Settling In to Watch Television. She was 92 and had lived on that block for forty-five years, through the better times, staying for the worst. Mrs. Sadie Mitchell. Her daughter provided the photograph, this intelligent looking woman with her little black hat, a relaxed jacket of pale plaid, leaving church, posing for some family member to take a snapshot. On a Tuesday evening, she'd come back from her new activity, exercise class, talked with her friend, Mrs. Fields, and was going to watch Jeopardy or Wheel of Fortune.