My glove apparently has nine lives. The black one with palms of thin kidskin and a lovely wool cable knit on the back. Not one bit warm. But I adore them. Wear them everywhere. With my faux fur trimmed hooded ski parka, my black dress coat, my black wool pea jacket. Love them. Bought them at the Brotherhood late last winter. $75 marked down 70%.
Must have feline ancestry. Or the sheep was dear friends with a barn cat. Wilbur-style. Or, more fitting, Animal Farm anarchy. New Zealand sheep whose woolly topcoats would be shorn by rugged herders sporting Wellies and gorgeous hand-knit sweaters then transported to the shores of Macaw to be dyed and spun into the yarn that would be fashioned into the glove, my gloves, in an overcrowded, smelly, hot factory in South Asia before being packed among dozens and dozens and dozens of its kin to be shipped back in huge containers to the states in time for the holidays. Unsold. Unwanted. Tres cher. This humble, over-looked, tossed-aside pair would find itself in a rattan basket oddly befitting its birth on a lower shelf near the cash register of the outlet store in early March where I would toss them onto the counter along with corduroy slacks for my son. The global travels of my lovely gloves. Seemingly close to mine. Mateless and casually over-looked.
But ah, I digress. Nine lives. I have lost one of these lovely gloves five times and more amazingly found it each time. Once on the brass fence post finial of an 18th century house in the center of the village. Once in the garage near the gas BBQ grill. Once in the parking lot nearly buried in snow melt rows from my parked car. Once on the abandoned beach along the shore where I take my Bailey for windy, winter walks searching for sand dollars. And today on top of the corner mailbox two days after I popped the red entertainment envelope and my electric bill into the slot while chatting with my neighbor. Always the right glove. Obvious reason.
That has never happened before. Or rarely. Finding a lost anything. Normally I lose the mate for good. Hoping it will turn up at the oddest of moments, in the strangest of places. But never. Upstairs my chest of drawers have a special place for unmatched socks. Survivor earrings haphazardly tossed in Grandma Alice's curly maple tea caddy await the discovery of their partner. Languishing really. But safe, loved. Singleton gloves from a prior life piled on the shelf of my downstairs closet, some new with crisp stitching and unworn suede palms, others rag wool from waxing up the skinny boards and heading onto fresh powder of a local golf course long ago, hands warm and cozy. They wait patiently for their mate to reappear at the bottom of a forgotten carton in the basement or hiding in the pocket of a coat unworn. Hopeful. Always in style.
Not this time. My lovely gloves five times found. Rebirth. The journey continues. New places to go. Coats to accessorize. More adventures. Like me.
Cheers ... and warmer hands ... until tomorrow!
Must have feline ancestry. Or the sheep was dear friends with a barn cat. Wilbur-style. Or, more fitting, Animal Farm anarchy. New Zealand sheep whose woolly topcoats would be shorn by rugged herders sporting Wellies and gorgeous hand-knit sweaters then transported to the shores of Macaw to be dyed and spun into the yarn that would be fashioned into the glove, my gloves, in an overcrowded, smelly, hot factory in South Asia before being packed among dozens and dozens and dozens of its kin to be shipped back in huge containers to the states in time for the holidays. Unsold. Unwanted. Tres cher. This humble, over-looked, tossed-aside pair would find itself in a rattan basket oddly befitting its birth on a lower shelf near the cash register of the outlet store in early March where I would toss them onto the counter along with corduroy slacks for my son. The global travels of my lovely gloves. Seemingly close to mine. Mateless and casually over-looked.
But ah, I digress. Nine lives. I have lost one of these lovely gloves five times and more amazingly found it each time. Once on the brass fence post finial of an 18th century house in the center of the village. Once in the garage near the gas BBQ grill. Once in the parking lot nearly buried in snow melt rows from my parked car. Once on the abandoned beach along the shore where I take my Bailey for windy, winter walks searching for sand dollars. And today on top of the corner mailbox two days after I popped the red entertainment envelope and my electric bill into the slot while chatting with my neighbor. Always the right glove. Obvious reason.
That has never happened before. Or rarely. Finding a lost anything. Normally I lose the mate for good. Hoping it will turn up at the oddest of moments, in the strangest of places. But never. Upstairs my chest of drawers have a special place for unmatched socks. Survivor earrings haphazardly tossed in Grandma Alice's curly maple tea caddy await the discovery of their partner. Languishing really. But safe, loved. Singleton gloves from a prior life piled on the shelf of my downstairs closet, some new with crisp stitching and unworn suede palms, others rag wool from waxing up the skinny boards and heading onto fresh powder of a local golf course long ago, hands warm and cozy. They wait patiently for their mate to reappear at the bottom of a forgotten carton in the basement or hiding in the pocket of a coat unworn. Hopeful. Always in style.
Not this time. My lovely gloves five times found. Rebirth. The journey continues. New places to go. Coats to accessorize. More adventures. Like me.
Cheers ... and warmer hands ... until tomorrow!
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