Feeling blue [and white!]

It was one of those dreary days. No sun, no plans, no company ... no money. I turned on the oven for some baking and turned it off again. No energy to bake, and no eggs in the house. It was a matter of kicking off my slippers, donning those old comfortable sneakers, and heading off down the main street. Perhaps I would encounter something to pull me out of the blues. Perhaps my last few dollars would go on eggs.

Perhaps that old ticket at the bottom of my bag would land me something. I scratched at the silvery squares and yes - just three icons alike, but it was something! This was the lucky break I needed. The old man behind the counter smiled. 'Three cats,' he said. 'Good luck, missee.' He handed me my twelve dollars fifty and pointed at the shelves behind him. 'You want drink? You want snack? You want lucky cat?'

I smiled and shook my head at him as kindly as I could. 'Eggs?'

I took half a dozen from his old hands and stashed them in my backpack.

The rest of my lucky money was not going to be spent so easily, so thoughtlessly. No - I was heading for a joyful half-hour at the thrift shop on Carson Street. Yes, that cluttered busy shop that was a kind of Aladdin's cave for the hoarder, a kind of anonymous treasure-or-trash trove for the likes of me. Nothing in my apartment was bought new. No new labels or swing tickets ever found their way to my place. Everything was a charity shop find, a thrift store discovery. My plates and bowls were beautiful, but mis-matched. My rug was an incredible nearly-new buy; a struggle to take home and up the stairs, but when rolled out ... wow! Large, soft, and a deep blue wonder, with a small tear in one corner, hidden under my big chair. My shelves were crowded with shapes and colours I stumbled upon and loved at first sight.

What would my lucky dollars get me to lift me out of that dreary mood? What would light up my empty day? Something to match the rug. Something to match all my odd blue plates. Something to go with my indigo, cornflower, and aquamarine mugs.

The place was crowded with the usual motley crowd of people. There was little of use that was not already in the questing hands of collectors, down-and-out mums, or those who, like me, wanted to spend a few dollars to fill an otherwise hopeless day.

A pretty mum in a near-threadbare shirt held up a soft bear to her child in a wobbly stroller. 'What do you think, Bubbee?' The child held out chubby arms. They both smiled. The bear had only one eye, but it was a match made in thrift heaven. 'Sold!' Four bucks made their day.

Where was my heavenly find? No soft bears for me; I was well out of that stage. I wanted something whose happiness value would increase with the passing years. Years that stretched ahead of me. Almost thirty and still bound to small treasures. Something lucky would bring me the job I sought, the person I wanted to love, the life I would leap out of bed every morning for.

And there it was. Blue, blue ... and white. Complete, without a chip or crack, standing on a shelf. Part of a display, so mostly ignored and passed-by. A beautiful Chinese jar, complete with lid. Blue, blue, blue. To go with my sky bowls, my azure tile, my cerulean vase. I reached for the caddy. It felt heavier than it looked. The lid did not fit perfectly, but I didn't dare lift it. Not until I got home.

'That's a neat find.' The woman behind the counter winked. 'But blue and white is so last decade.'

I told her I didn't do decades, and she laughed. We both laughed together as she wrapped the jar in an old soft cotton shopping bag someone had sewn out of some unwanted fabric. It had one broken strap, but never mind. It held my beautiful find safe, hugged against my chest, too new and valuable to place in my bag on top of the eggs, until I climbed back up those stairs to my quiet apartment. More fragile than eggs. More curious than anything I had ever found.

Before I unwrapped it, I threw open a window, and put the kettle on. Somewhere, someone was practising some sort of wind instrument. Saxophone? Trombone? It filled the distance with the kind of melancholy that strengthens, rather than saddens. The day turned golden, it turned good and warm.

And then it turned blue and white. Unwrapped from the fabric, my new/old Chinese jar was perfect. I knew without doubt I had stumbled on someone's beloved belonging; something valuable because it somehow avoided being broken. What stories did it know? It was strange and cleverly hand-painted. I had never seen anything like it before. It had set me back eight whole dollars, and it was an impulse buy the like of which I had made before - many times. But this oddly-shaped jar was somehow more precious. I made a space on a shelf where my collection of odd boxes stood, hiding my savings and my coupons. I pushed aside the picture of a weird fish I printed out at the library and framed in brass, another thrift-shop find. I placed the jar there carefully and stood back.

Imperfect, with a wonky lid. Perfect.

Blue and white, it stood out. No cracks or chips, it was a miraculous survivor in this rough world. In this random, complicated, cruel world. It completed my day, filled my shelf, gave me the kind of satisfaction that would last a while. Because I felt it was good - a survivor, like me.

Janice from across the passage came in for a coffee and brought cream buns. She would wait for the bakery closing time and take the day's remains for a couple of dollars. 'Eclairs! Bring down a blue plate.' No baking that day. I would boil two eggs later, and have them with toast sticks.

We ate her eclairs, and drank my instant coffee in companionable silence, and I knew she'd be back in a week or so with more. I loved her buns. She loved the fact I asked no intrusive questions. I showed her my Chinese jar. She laughed. 'One day, buy something purple or pink and surprise the heck out of me.' She took down the jar and I held my breath.

Her long thin finger showed me the Chinese symbols on the bottom. 'It's real.'

'If you can see it and hold it, it must be real.'

She laughed and placed it back carefully.

I exhaled.

'One day buy something red.'

'One day. Perhaps.'

She was back with doughnuts and Swedish semlors in a cardboard box on the Friday after I had a job interview. They were yeasty, creamy, and looked delicious. 'What a feast!' I put the kettle on.

'I might have got a job.'

'Yay,' she said. 'Regular money!'

We laughed, nodded, and ate together.

'I looked up your new blue thingy,' she said, through a mouthful of cream bun, waggling a long thin finger at my shelf.

'My jar?'

'It's a Chinese tea caddy, is what it is. They're rare. Very few like yours, let me tell you.'

I nodded. 'I love it, rare or not.'

'Could be worth a bit.'

I shrugged and bit into a doughnut. 'Wouldn't part with it. It makes me happy, and you can't buy that.' In the distance, the trumpet or horn or trombone sounded mellow and round.

She reached for another bun. 'Hmm. There were none on ebay or etsy for less than four hundred.'

I looked up at my shelf. 'Really?'

'Hm. But it's blue. And it makes you happy.' She looked at all my precious thrift shop finds.

'It does,' I said.

We smiled together.

'It does.'

oooOOOooo