When I left Moira’s house on Friday morning, I set my GPS for the closest place where I could buy a warm, fuzzy sweater, which she had said was the Salvation Army Family Store on 4th Avenue at Geary Street. The weather drove my need; I forget from time to time that the San Francisco fog exists as a sentient being that coils itself around your bones.  It’s late June; I brought only a light jacket for my day in the city.

I had to circle the block twice. When I finally shimmied my car into a parking spot and disembarked, I skirted past a woman arguing with a worker about the traffic cones in front of the handicapped accessible space. I left her to it. She seemed capable.

Inside the store, a smiling clerk welcomed me.   I asked where the carts were. He pushed aside a large orange cart filled with puzzles and said we don’t have any. I gave him a quizzical glance, since clearly they had at least one. I looked further, towards the cashier and saw another one, also filled with merchandise.  I asked again where the carts were, thinking that perhaps he had not understood. He gestured to a stack of hand baskets and said customers use those. I reflected, watching him push the puzzles into a back room.  Then I decided again not to argue and moved into the body of the store to begin my search.

At the sales rack I discovered that there were no sweaters. But I picked out a couple of things and then I found a handmade mug for my hostess. As I went to pay,  a flight of stairs caught my attention. The signage announced, Clothing and Collectibles Upstairs. I asked the cashier if I could leave my things with her and she indicated that they don’t normally do that but she would make an exception. I told her that I would need to have one hand free to climb the stairs and she gestured to a corridor and said we have an elevator.  The irony of having an elevator but only two carts did not escape me; but I left it alone.    I merely smiled, thanked her, and put Moira’s mug and my other items on the counter and headed for the upper regions and hidden gems.

 indeed, there were lots of clothes on the second floor.  I gleefully pounced on a bulky cardigan in extra large, which exceeds my size by a couple of notches. As I checked the fabric content,  I remembered a YouTube influencer that spoke of body positivity. She encouraged everyone to buy clothes that fit them, no matter the size. She also quietly said and for those of you who think buying a size or two bigger and belting it is a good idea, let me encourage you to leave that clothing for people who need those sizes especially if you’re shopping secondhand. I put the sweater back and then spied a 100% wool jacket in my size and figured that the Universe had rewarded my virtue.

I returned to the first floor, only to find myself on the outskirts of an altercation between a worker and an agitated man who looked as though he might be unhoused, judging by his backpack from which many belongings spilled.  I stood watching the encounter, trying to decide if a judicious intervention would be helpful. In the end I let that go, too. I paid for my purchases and then headed outside to look for Green Apple Books,  where I discovered that the category of books I wanted lived on the third floor. Of course it did; but no elevator here.

So I dragged myself all the way up, picked out a couple of volumes, then headed back to the stairwell. Down is always more problematic, due to the great risk of sudden unscheduled balance adjustments. As I slowly descended, a woman and her child ask if they could go around me.  After they did, the mother looked back and said do you need help? I admitted that if she wanted to assist, she could take the books that I had chosen down to the cash stand for me, which she eagerly agreed to do.  When I finally got to the counter, I drew a large, staggering breath; quietly paid, and then went out to my car.

As I prepared to drive a half block to where I had decided to eat lunch, a gentle rap on my window caused me to look outward to the sidewalk. There I saw a tiny Asian woman, maybe 80 years old.  She wore a pale blue bucket hat, a tidy black jacket, and a sweet smile. I thought to myself, this is San Francisco, I probably should not open the window.   Then I thought about my son in Chicago and I asked myself what he would do.  He would, unquestionably, see what she needed.

$2 for tea, she said, and I nodded. I rummaged in my bag and discovered that I had two twenties and a 10. I offered her the 10 and she urgently declined, saying,  no no no I only need $2 for tea. I replied, this is what I have to give you and held the bill toward the open window.  She took it, said God bless you, sister, and then spoke something which sounded like a prayer in what I assumed to be her native language.

Certainly, having a tiny Asian woman pray for me in her native language was worth $10.

I did other things that day.  I drove to the Headlands to commune in the fog with crows and to Sausalito to stare at the Bay.  From a park bench at Fort Mason, I marveled at a swimmer followed by what must have been his spotter in a small boat, rowing for her life to keep pace.  Moira and I enjoyed a fabulous meal at Greens, a restaurant founded by the  San Francisco Zen Center. Moira took me on a night-time tour.    I enjoyed every minute.  But to be perfectly honest, none of it surpassed that simple exchange with a small, pleasant woman on the streets of the city, a woman who could have been my mother, my sister, or — truth told — even myself.

Mugwumpishly tendered,

Corinne Corley

The Missouri Mugwump®

Sausalito

Seen across the Bay

On the water

Spirit animal

Moira Willis

Palace of Fine Arts, photo credit Moira Willis