Last weekend Phoebe, Demetria, and I made some epic Dump scores in the form of crop tops, checkered jackets, knits and sandals. Charlie, on the other hand, found a book of watercolors, by an artist named Wyeth, not the famous one.
It's a beautiful book, the sparse landscape paintings of rural Germany oddly remind me of Finland in the spring, when all the color is so drained from the landscape that even the smallest Coltsfoot in the ditch on the side of the road catches your attention.
They are very quiet, these paintings. The have the air of slow movement and silence and secrecy.
Each of them could be a poster I'd put on my wall. I love this one of the German Shepherd, a dog I haven't seen too many of in the New World, or since my childhood. In Finnish they are called a "wolf-dog".
Imagine our surprise though, when turning onto a new page the was a cluster of dried four-leaf-clovers. And then again a couple pages later, and again in a few more pages. Small strange things like that always get me, because they rouse questions: Why this book? Where did this person find all these four-leaf-clovers? Was there a field of them next to their house? Did they collect them over decades and decades? Who are they? Do I know them? Why did they get rid of the book and the clovers with it?
Suddenly the book is not just a book, not even a beautiful one; it's the repository of someone else's luck.
I get the impulse. I mean, I too stash all kinds of things in books: money, checks, business cards, pieces of embroidery thread, notes, plants...
It's an easy way to keep something for later, that is, until you forget all about it. But this, it seems deliberate, a ritual. I hope that where ever they are, this person, they're not missing their clover collection. If it's you, call me.