Wednesday, January 23, 2013
A Mitten Story
I frequent a tiny strip mall that consists of a health food store, a sports shop and a boutique. On favorable days a homeless man (well, perhaps he lives at God's Love Shelter in this weather) sits by the entrance of the food store and plays a Native American flute. I usually stop and hand him a few bucks because my gut tells me he is truly destitute and not buying booze with it. (Maybe a little, but it sure helps to take a little nip in this weather). He always stops playing when I approach him and we chat a little. When I handed him the money, his hands felt like ice.
" Your hands are freezing. Where are your gloves?"
"I don't have any."
"You need fingerless gloves."
When I returned from the food store and was getting in my car, I glanced up at the sports store. They must have fingerless gloves. I threw my groceries in the car and went into the sports shop. Of course, they had hunting gloves with a mitten flap and they were made of soft ragg wool. Perfect. I ran over to the flute player with the gloves. He tore off the tag, put them on immediately, while thanking me profusely and saying he even had money to buy food tonight.
As I walked back to my car, the haunting melodic sounds of the flute filled the parking lot and I had tears in my eyes. I don't know why but maybe it's because my hands have always been warm.