One-handed thief on the loose

I made a startling discovery this morning as I looked outside at the fresh snow and then inside in our glove and mitten bin. A thief is on the prowl. And he only has one hand. And it’s a good sized hand at that. In digging through our bin, matches were a plenty, except for ones that would fit me. All I could find in the way of large gloves were for my south paw. Now fashion has never been my strong suit—I would have been more than happy to find any combination of one right and one left. Matching colors matters not to me. Maybe because I can magically turn anything white, making two mismatches look like a pair. But it was not to be. I left with four left-handed gloves.

This morning’s vain search made me think back to last Saturday when our family volunteered (under some duress) at a thrift store 40 miles west of Minneapolis. It was actually a pretty classy second hand store. Most of things for sale were in far better shape than most of my wardrobe. When we first arrived we were initiated into the store’s policy about accepting donations—be picky. I was put in charge of the back entrance where the donations were received. Most of the things I saw looked brand new and caused no problem, but there were a number of people bringing things that were more my style—very comfortable. This caused quite a dilemma for me. The lady training me in should have just told me, “Tim, if you see anything coming to our back door that looks like what you, Tim, are wearing, slam the door in their face. And then latch the dead bolt. I tried to cover the coffee stains on my shirt (they were fresh stains), by pretending to scratch my nose. But I think she thought I was doing something else. Then she knew she had put me in the right place, far, far away from the retail area.

I was well picked to stay in the back, man the garbage, receive the good goods (being a living display of the needy to those well-dressed folk handing off their fine extras), and turn away the bad goods (hey dude, I love that couch with the creative pattern of cigarette burns, but they just don’t have room for such a fine piece.)

In short, I went kicking and whining, but I left actually feeling pretty good about the place. It was good to volunteer. I met some neat folks. My only regret: I didn’t pick up a right-handed glove.