Bright Green Jackets and Bright White Lights - a Tale of Two Givings

Hubs and I parked the Prius in one of our usual spots today in order to take the min pin on one of her jaunty city walks. We can stroll merrily in our own suburban neighborhood well enough, but our doggy diva prefers sidewalks and front porches with big wooden steps upon which she can hurtle herself into the arms of one of our assorted daily well-wishers; and if she's lucky, receive a doggy treat. 

Trust me, she is often lucky.

As we parked today, we saw a fellow wearing a day-glo green parka standing outside of a Jeep jostling an immensely large clear mug of liquid. The jacket's color suggested either extreme skier or mad scientist or perhaps just someone who was also planning on strolling and preferred the sort of textile driven visibility that would most certainly lower the odds of getting hit by a car. 

Hubs remarked on the man's very obviously displayed cylinder. "What is that? Chem lab?" 

The gray haired gentleman expertly poured cloudless liquid from the beaker into another receptacle, a simple yet beautiful vase. Then, from the hatch, he brought forth with flourish, a giant bouquet of safe-in-plastic autumnal hued flowers. As Hubs leashed the min pin, I watched from my parking lot vantage point while Mr. Green Jacket, the amateur florist, arranged the browns, oranges and golds in a pleasant pattern; smiling and smoothing their ochre and auburn heads. 

Walking toward him, I remarked that the arrangement could not be more lovely. He blushed, thanked me, and remarked that he hoped that the recipient would love them as much as I did. I assured him that they would be a total home run. Someone was in for a gorgeous grace-filled surprise.

My heart sings in moments like this. My right hand floats chestward as if possessed during such occasions and I clutch lightly around my neck and at my clothing. It's as if I hold myself because I sense the crescendo of my heartbeat. My heart is a red balloon filled with gratitude and it will float out of my collar and up to the sky if I don't hold the feeling tightly.

And so I cradle it and breathe in love like the warm draft of a woodstove on a wintry day.

I am snug, and pleased with the world. As we cross Hubs, with a light hearted wisecrack, makes it known to the flower arranger that he's upstaging all husbands with the flowers; making them look bad. With a phosphorescent wave of his arm, the almsgiver of blossoms yodels the name of the nearby shop where he purchased them. Smiling, we express our thanks and walked on.

It is the time of year where all of the Halloween and harvest pumpkins are being discarded below the curb, primed for the street sweepers. The carved ones have taken on the appearance of shrunken heads. Others are solid and in one piece. I beg Hubs to grab some of these discards for the squirrels in our yard who, after I split them open, feast upon the seeds and fleshy bits with the excitement of Romans at a banquet. I love when they wring their little hands as though they can't contain their ecstasy of being offered such a delicious prize. 

Forty five minutes later into our walk, we see fluorescent flower man ushering small children at a cross walk near the neighborhood school. Hubs and I smile widely at one another. That explains the jacket. Rosy cheeked from the cold, he grins, eyes crinkled behind his glasses, listening intently to the little ones recounting their days. He sees us. We wave. He waves back with mittened enthusiasm. 

Tonight, on our evening walk, with the min pin bundled and darting into leaf piles, Hubs and I notice how many homes are already decked out for the holidays. It's quite dark so we can peek into windows as we stroll past; trees festooned in garland and lights; icicles, snowy white and electrified, hanging from garages and walkways; blowup St. Nicks and North Poles, some tall, some small, all carefully tethered to the cold ground and whirring gently from the fans inflating them for our collective delight. 

Turning onto one of my favorite streets, I see a home lit from top to bottom; 'Griswald-like" in appearance. A charming little tree stands squarely placed in the middle of the lawn with an illuminated sign set to its left. Initially, I thought it was a prop; maybe a giant letter to Santa or a copy of the naughty list, but upon closer inspection, it was a fervent request...a plea for those walking by to please "Be an Angel" and select a tag off of the giving tree**. As I'm sure you are aware, plucking a tag off a giving tree obligates one to benevolently buy for the recipient and return that special something in a prompt and elvish fashion.  

In our many years together, Hubs and I have grabbed tags off many a church giving tree, workplace trees, and even at Walmart in years past when we walked in three days prior to Christmas and saw that half the tags were still hanging unclaimed, but this was the first time we'd seen a tree like this on a regular city street in front of a regular city house. 

But this is no "regular" city house because the thoughtful people in this house recognized a need and took on the task of showing up for and shining a light, quite literally, on the plight of those who are hurting this holiday season. 

This is a house of "Why not me?" instead of "Why me?" 

This is a house of "I can," in place of "I can't."  

This is a house of "I will do" in lieu of "I could have done..."and as I read the wishes of the children on those tags, the whole scene touched me so that I felt the red balloon start filling up in my chest again.   

Hubs is used to my tears. He knows me. He sees first hand how I am touched day after day by the beautiful things which I am blessed to witness...ordinary people lifting one another up and creating opportunities for connection in a world that has been advised to avoid those around us, even the most vulnerable, in the name of safety.

One of my friends told me, via phone from across the country yesterday, that she feels as though she is stuck in a Jell-O mold; just wiggling from side to side from an occasional jolt in the biome. Truth be told, I've been known to enjoy a cup of the cherry goo, especially with fruit, but after hearing her analogy, I no longer have the childlike urge to suck it through my teeth. I've literally lost my taste for it just like I've lost my patience for rules and the regulations and the tamping down on all that we love as humankind, even though I know it's supposedly good for us. 

Safe for us. 

Responsible of us.  

So, I un-looped a tag off the tree with the hopes that by the time this child is old enough to know what Christmas dreams are, we will be back to our natural, regular routines; methodical and commonplace; the return of our ordinary days and our ordinary selves. 

And a sense of divine gratitude for each other.

I hope that the flowers meant for the crossing guard's special person have a starring role in the center of his or her Thanksgiving table. 

May blessings rain down like glittery white icicles on your holiday and on you. 

With big red balloon love,

Me

**P.S. The address for the giving tree is 16 Garfield Street, Glens Falls, NY 12801 if you feel moved enough to want to send a toy to a needy child. (Deadline for receipt of gifts is Dec, 18, 2020, thank you.) 

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The Avon Series - Blog 1

My first Avon product encounter was purely by chance. Walking home from school with my best friend in 1974, I unintentionally stepped on something under a bunch of orange, crunchy fallen leaves that caused my foot to roll slightly and being a little kid who liked finding random objects, I curiously picked it up.

I remember it was a small plastic cylinder, kind of like a Chapstick, which we had in my house, but larger and the color of a dark night of rain; fancy in its appearance. As I turned  it over in my hand, my friend decided we should show it to her mother. We lived in the same apartment complex, but Teri's building was nearer to school than mine, so her place would be our first stop with an item of such grand importance. This was back in the days when kids found something of value and quickly ran home so that they could turn it over to the first available adult, otherwise if you hid it in a pocket it glowed there like red hot contraband and would burn your hand if you fiddled with it.  

Rose, my friend's mother, identified the valuable object right away as an Avon "Demistick". She popped off the cap and expertly twisted up what was left of the solid milky looking fragrance. There was very little left in the tube, clearly this had been discarded, street-side, on purpose. As Rose tossed it in the trash, she explained that this was not an unusual item for a lady to have in her purse or coat pocket. Since nearly all of the women in our apartment complex were Avon customers, Rose naturally had a Demistick or two of her own. Grabbing a new one from the medicine cabinet, still packaged in its small box, she sat us down in the living room so that she could show it off. In my mind's eye, I see a navy colored label showcasing a female figure, Greek or Roman, mythical in appearance. The goddess may or may not have been wearing a toga. As a five year old, this seemed like an unbelievable treasure. 

"Moonwind," Rose said peering at the label on the bottom of the stick. Teri and I looked at one another and she went on to explain that names of all of the Avon perfumes were redolent of far away places or romance. Teri and I observed excitedly as she first dabbed some on herself; permitting each of us to test the grown up scent on our wrists and behind our ears. We lifted our little arms to our noses in order to inhale our newly spicy bouquet.

Rose game me that Demistick, probably because I was so enamored with it and the one I'd stumbled upon was not useful. I carried the Moonwind Demistick to my apartment and placed it in my red patent purse which was used for carrying my small sized identification and books and candies for church each Sunday. I don't recall applying it but I liked taking it out and drawing in its incensy goodness.

My mother got her first visit from the Avon lady almost immediately following my discovery. Ringing the doorbell with her small valise of items, she was a bit like a traveling sales Mary Poppins. Makeup, fragrance, and jewelry would pour out of what seemed like too small a case to hold all of the goodies which Mom and I were encouraged to admire, hold, or sample. 

Flash forward to November 2020 and I have begun selling Avon at age 51. 

I am the Avon Lady. 

Needing a little something special for myself, this seems very comfortable and natural. That early childhood introduction led to a lifetime of Avon during which I've received dozens of cherished gifts, and, when I was old enough, selected products of my own which have brought me an abundance of happiness.

Tune in for more Avon stories, which I plan to chronicle here and on my Facebook page https://www.facebook.com/valbucciavonlady.

Enjoy these cool photos I found of vintage Demisticks. Do you remember them?

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