I’m trying to be a good steward. My plan won’t change the world, and in the interest of full disclosure, I don’t do it every single time, but it’s a start. Frankly, sometimes, I forget.
I take my shopping carts from the parking lot corral instead of from the static display inside the store. Pushing the cart is more of a workout than sauntering unencumbered into the shopping experience. However, that’s a side benefit—any health advantage is simply a product of my fertile, overfed mind. It burns maybe two extra calories.
At the wholesale club where I am a member, someone had emptied the outdoor cart enclosure and returned all the buggies to the inner sanctum before I arrived.
While I walked away from the empty cart corral, not unhappy about having nothing to push, a pleasant fellow who had just finished loading his trunk called out, “I’ve got what you’re looking for, young fellow.”
He presented his cart to me, handlebar first like a maître d’ might hold out a bottle of wine so you can peruse the label, “Take mine; I’m finished,” he said.
“Thank you, kind sir,” I said, trying to live up to the high standard he set forth in the elite manner he offered.
“Hey, you look familiar to me,” he said with that uptick of inflection that intimates healthy suspicion, however not overtly accusatory.
I said, “I don’t know. What’s your name?” He shared his, and I stated my own.
“I guess you’re not who I thought you were,” he said.
I asked him where he was from.
“Aroostook County,” he added, explaining that he no longer resides there but lives in a town very close to mine.
“Hmm, there are some Cottons up there, but none to whom I am related. I must have one of those faces.”
He smiled, “Probably,” and released the basket end of the cart, subliminally allowing me to exit the conversation.
I stuck out my hand, “It’s still nice to meet you,” and he agreed; I could tell by the squeeze. We both moved on after the conversational exchange. I liked him.
Today, I parked at the building supply store near the far end of the enormous lot. Sunshine accompanied me on the walk, which made it all the more pleasant. I retrieved an upright lumber cart featuring dividers to keep your boards away from your battens. They remind me of a rolling toaster constructed from the bent pipe, and they pivot on a central set of caster wheels as a bonus; it allows you to hit more things in the aisles when maneuvering four-by-eight sheets of this or that.
After loading the lumber into the bed of my truck, I walked it back to the storefront, where the conveyances were kept at the ready. The blue-vested cart gatherer was entering from stage left for the first collection of the morning, and as we crossed paths, he said, “Thank you,” most likely for the return and not the purchase. In his mind, he summed up that it would be one less trip across the lot, especially since those carts must be wheeled around individually and not in the wagon train style.
I consent that neither meet-and-greet was influential in the scheme of international relations. However, these friendly exchanges were based simply on the uncomplicated task of returning your cart to the corral—or, in my case, selecting your wheeled steed from the corral at the outset and returning it later to where it all began.
The impact of almost negligible acts can be positive, even if you are doing it simply so you can ingest two or three more calories at the end of a long day of meeting new friends.
Return your carts; you will meet the nicest people.
That’s all I’ve got.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC
*For my BuyMeACoffee folks, thanks for your kind generosity. It keeps the lights on and fingers moving across the faded keyboard. You are appreciated. Thank you! TC