The first piece of advice I give new hospital social workers is to wear clothes with lots of pockets. Mine hold what you might expect: a phone to contact services that clients need, a pen and paper to jot down notes, and tissues for patients whose stories break them (and me) open.
But I also need room for the less-obvious tools of my trade. A hard candy works as a prop to teach a calming sensory exercise to an anxious woman waiting for news from the trauma room. A fifty-cent piece is an unobtrusive worry stone. A piece of string looped around my fingers reminds me of humanity’s interconnectedness while I wait on hold for the child-welfare worker. I can’t tell you how many bus passes, business cards for the domestic-violence shelter, packets of crackers, and other items make their way in and out of my pockets over a twelve-hour shift.
I pat myself down before I leave the hospital, looking for anything containing protected health information, unloading all the stories I hear each day to make room for more.
Jill Summers
Salem, Oregon
A.B. never wakes up before me. When we first started dating, I would either wait in bed for her to open her eyes or “accidentally” bump her awake. Later I started to quietly leave the bedroom and use my morning energy to make coffee and tame our excitable dog. During those private hours I also ordered an engagement ring, nervously called A.B.’s dad, and booked a trip to Maine, where I planned to propose.
I left the exact place and time of the proposal undecided, figuring that, as long as I had the ring in my pocket, the right moment would present itself. Perhaps it would be while we took in Portland’s sights, or in front of a lighthouse along the coast.
Early one morning during our trip, I was walking through our rental when the ring slipped through a tear in my pants pocket, fell down my leg, and, with my next step, was launched into the bedroom. It landed on the floor right beside my snoozing girlfriend. True to form, she didn’t wake up, and I silently retrieved it and hid it in another pocket. I felt lucky the ring had fallen out in the rental instead of in the sand on the beach, where she said yes.
Andrew Gentry
Golden, Colorado
Some say that being a good pool player is the sign of a misspent youth. For me it was the opposite.
When I was ten years old, the other kids called me “Massachusetts Fats” because I was overweight and could run a pool table almost as deftly as Minnesota Fats from the movie The Hustler. Since I’d been tall enough to hold a cue, I’d spent every summer working the coin-operated table at the Holyoke Canoe Club in Massachusetts. A game cost twenty-five cents, but my friends and I learned that if we caught the balls before they went into the pockets, we could play all day for a quarter.
I loved the game then, and I still do today: The concentration it requires and how meditative it can be. The loud clack of a good break and the soft sound of the balls rolling over the green baize. I wouldn’t have used the word mindfulness in 1968, but I would now.
The best part was the camaraderie in the rec room. There were jokes and trash talk, of course, but also a sense of finding one’s role within a group. I’m still friends with many of those boys, who have become decent, loving men.
John Lescault
Silver Spring, Maryland
At the age of thirty-five, and eighteen years into alcoholism’s increasingly grim grind, I wanted to change my life, but somehow keep alcohol in it. I tried moderation, counseling, cycling, and even carrying “scorecards” to note my number of drinks (though, by my seventh, I was usually too drunk to keep score).
While I was visiting family in Spain, my cousin told me she had recently walked the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage route and found it life-changing. I vowed to cycle part of it. Covering three hundred kilometers and two mountain ranges in a week would force me to take a break from alcohol.
I arrived in León, Spain, checked in at the albergue (a hostel for pilgrims), strolled the city’s cobbled streets, and bought an ice cream. Moments later I checked my back pocket. My wallet was gone. Panicking, I ran back to the ice-cream parlor, where a young woman apologetically told me pickpockets often targeted travelers.
I didn’t have a single euro or a bank card. My father could wire me money, but the next day was Sunday, and the day after that was a religious holiday. I’d have to wait until Tuesday to get it.
Feeling like the universe was conspiring against me and my plans, I returned to the albergue desperate for a drink. One of the nuns who ran the place noticed my agitation. When I told her what had happened, she assured me I didn’t need to pay for my stay, and I could share meals with the nuns. I’d never felt such gratitude. When offered wine at dinner, I felt able to decline.
I spent the next two days wandering León. With no money and nothing to do, I was forced to slow down and simply soak up the city’s medieval majesty.
By the time I finally set out on my bike, I was in the calmest, happiest state of mind I’d experienced in years. Every interesting person I encountered during the pilgrimage was someone I wouldn’t have met if I’d set off according to schedule. I appreciated the verdant farmland, pristine villages, and staggering mountain views all the more, knowing the trip had almost ended before it had begun.
On my fifth day the Streets’ song “The Escapist” came on my iPod. At the opening words, “These walls were never really there,” I startled myself by sobbing with joy. Maybe life without alcohol wasn’t the dreary purgatory I’d imagined.
I did drink again after I got home—this isn’t a fairy tale—but the next year I stopped for good. I truly believe the pickpocket accidentally made this possible. I hope they spent the money on something nice.
Jaime Gill
Phnom Penh, Cambodia
My hand slides into the back pocket of Marty’s red-tab Levi’s. He jams his hand—at least, as much of it as will fit—into the pocket of my skintight Jordache jeans, so that our arms form an X behind our backs. By the end of our first couples skate, to the strains of “Lost in Love,” his fingers are probably tingling from lack of circulation.
The next Saturday, hoping for another skate with Marty, I pluck my jeans from the clothesline. They can’t withstand the dryer, lest it shrink them one iota or fade their indigo wash, which is the perfect backdrop for their dazzling pocket stitching. Unlike the classic Ws on my father’s Wranglers, the silvery threads outlining the back pockets on every girl’s Jordache are designed to draw the gaze.
I sit on my bed and pull on the cardboard-stiff pants to my knees. Then I flop backward to wrestle them up to my waist. Getting off the bed requires a sideways roll. (Sometimes girlfriends come over so we can help each other dress.) The only thing I can fit in my back pocket is a pink comb that brands me “Hot Stuff.”
As mesmerizing as they are to behold, my jeans are excruciating to sit in. At the roller rink I stand for the duration of the night, along with my Jordache-outfitted girlfriends. We all wear billowy, gauzy blouses—the only tops thin enough to tuck into our waistbands.
By the time the last couples skate is announced, we have positioned ourselves around the pinball area with our backs to the boys. Itching to be asked to skate, I dare a glance over my shoulder and clock Marty heading toward us. My head snaps forward. Marty skates up without stopping and hooks his finger into Ellie’s belt loop, pulling her into the crowded rink.
Through the outside doors, I can see my father in his Oldsmobile, waiting to pick me up. I head for the exit. Before I can get there, Marty cuts me off, his face red with embarrassment, and explains his mistake: “You all look the same from the back!”
Janet Guthrie
Missoula, Montana
My mother-in-law loved her saris and had a collection made of intricately embroidered silk, which she wore for special occasions.
A sari consists of a yards-long piece of fabric that the wearer wraps around their body, tucking and pleating until it drapes just so. Underneath is a cropped blouse and sometimes a petticoat, but no pockets in which to store anything.
A few months after my mother-in-law passed, my father-in-law slowly took on the task of sorting her saris to give to relatives or donate. He was carefully unfolding and refolding each piece of cloth when he began to discover the money. Hidden away, clipped to the lining of the fabric, were envelopes filled with fifties and hundreds. No one had any idea it was there. My mother-in-law had never mentioned the money and didn’t leave a note.
I imagine her slipping a couple of bills inside each sari after wearing it, again and again.
I don’t know what led her to do it. Perhaps it was a habit from earlier years, when cash had felt safer close at hand than in the bank. Or maybe she meant for someone to find the bills after she was gone: a final act of care folded into her beloved saris. Either way, I admired how she had learned to make her own pockets, improvising hidden places for the things she didn’t want to lose.
Nicole Kirpalani
San Antonio, Texas
I was walking the dogs in the park with my husband and my sister when a baby squirrel ran out of the woods. The dogs went crazy. I tried to herd the squirrel away from them, but it ran up my leg. I had heard somewhere that this means the squirrel is an orphan looking for help, so I picked the little guy up. My husband immediately said, “Put it back in the woods!” I scanned the area—no nest in the trees, no mother, no other little squirrels. I reluctantly put the baby on the ground. He stared at me with big eyes and climbed my leg again.
My sister gave me a look. (I have a history of rescuing animals.) Undeterred, I put the shaking squirrel into the pocket of my hoodie. On the drive home I could feel his little body relax into sleep.
My husband quickly found a nature center that would take the squirrel. When we got there, the squirrel was so comfortable in my pocket, I hated to let him go.
A few weeks later the nature center sent me an email with a picture of the squirrel, ready for release. He had grown, but I recognized those sweet eyes.
Cindy Peterson
Plymouth, Connecticut
My sister’s husband had an army jacket with enormous interior pockets, and as a teenager I used to borrow it for shoplifting sprees.
One night a friend threw a party in her basement. When everyone ran out of cigarettes, they dispatched me to steal some. Most of the stores in my little coal-mining town were small neighborhood shops, but there were a couple of larger supermarkets where staff was minimal. I chose one where only a single employee was on duty—a school acquaintance named Danny.
I stuffed four cartons of cigarettes inside the jacket—two in the pockets and two under my arms. As I headed to the door, Danny blocked my path. “I know what you’re doing,” he said. He pulled my arms away from my sides, and the two cartons clattered onto the floor.
Why I didn’t just walk out with the two remaining cartons in my pockets, I don’t know. Probably because I was a smart-ass who didn’t like to be reprimanded, especially by a kid from my high school. Instead I picked up the cartons, stuck them back inside the jacket, and walked out. Apparently too stunned to know what to do, Danny let me go.
I used that jacket for years. Sometimes I stole things I thought I needed, like makeup and snacks, but mostly I stole just for the thrill of it.
Of all the things I’m ashamed of having done—and there are a lot—shoplifting is the worst. My parents worked hard, my dad in the coal mines and my mom as a secretary. They always made sure I had more than I needed. Yet I humiliated them, without their ever knowing it, by stealing from people we knew. I also hurt the store owners, who worked six days a week and didn’t have much.
I moved back to the area several years ago. The stores where I shoplifted are all long gone, so I can’t even apologize. Instead I drop off canned goods and diapers at the food pantry. I give donations to places that feed the hungry. I shop at the small stores, even if I have to pay a little more. And I’ve named several of my hometown charities in my will. I can’t undo my past, but I can try to make amends.
Mary Blye Kramer
Carbondale, Illinois
As an MRI technologist I followed the motto “to scan and protect”—like the police motto “to serve and protect,” but without the right to frisk patients. If I had been able to search them, I might have prevented more prohibited items from getting into the scanner.
The MRI scanner was what I needed to protect them from. It’s a huge magnet that can turn metal objects into dangerous projectiles. At every appointment I checked the patient’s records for previous surgeries and asked if they had any medical implants. They were told to leave jewelry and all items from their pockets in a locker.
Patients were given a ball to squeeze if they needed to come out of the scanner. Many squeezed the ball before they’d made it all the way inside—mostly because of jitters or claustrophobia, but too frequently because they hadn’t emptied their pockets, and their clothes were being yanked toward the magnet. I had patients go into the scanner with keys, pocketknives, nail clippers, and even screwdrivers and screws.
Eventually the hospital began requiring that patients wear a gown, leaving just their underpants on beneath it. That helped immensely, but a few still found ways to break the rules.
Once, I helped a patient stand up after his MRI, and an expensive-looking watch fell to the ground. I did not offer to pick it up, since I could guess where it had been hidden. I asked the man why he’d stashed the watch in his underwear. He said he feared the Black technologist who’d given him his gown would steal it from his locker.
Part of me hoped the gears and springs in his fancy watch had been broken by the MRI’s magnetic field.
Tobi Pledger
Durham, North Carolina
When my daughter was young, I would put a slip of paper with my name and phone number on it into her pocket whenever we went to a crowded place. She knew that, if we were separated, she should find an employee or security guard and hand them the paper.
Once she was old enough to remember my phone number, the paper was no longer necessary, but I still wanted the assurance that a piece of me was always with her if she needed it. So I wrote words of encouragement and silly jokes on pieces of scrap paper and placed them in a bowl near our front door. Every weekday morning I would give my daughter a slip from the bowl when she left for school. She would slide it into her pocket, so it was there if she needed it.
Elizabeth Barattini
New Orleans, Louisiana
When I was an exchange student at the University of Zimbabwe, money began disappearing from my pocket. I would start the day with twenty Zimbabwean dollars and end it with only a few left, even though I hadn’t spent that much. The last straw was when I put fifty dollars in my pocket to buy jeans, and when I got to the store, it was gone.
My American friends who heard about this problem told me to cut back on the weed, but my Zimbabwean friend Albert took it seriously and asked if I had ever sought help from an nganga. I had visited an nganga—a traditional shaman—for a class in African traditional religion. He’d taken a couple of classmates and me into a river and splashed us with water and herbs. He’d also given us herbs to take home to bathe with at sunrise and sundown. After using them, I felt confused, and I had bad dreams about a friend who had passed away trying to communicate with me. I couldn’t remember her message, but it left my blood cold.
Albert told me to get rid of the herbs. That night a friend and I dumped them in a field, and we both saw a cloudy form drift away.
When I shared this story with other Zimbabwean friends, they clicked their tongues in sympathy. All of them had tales of ngangas stealing money. One recalled an nganga giving a cashier a dollar; at the end of the day, the cash register was empty.
I don’t know how the nganga was able to access my money, but I do know the money stopped disappearing from my pocket the minute the herbs disappeared from my life.
A.E.R.
Anchorage, Alaska
In April 2024 I replaced 450 square feet of my front lawn with a “pocket prairie,” a collection of native wildflowers and grasses. The purpose was to have plants that could withstand weather extremes caused by climate change—mostly drought. Once the black-eyed Susans bloomed in force, neighbors started calling us the “flower house.”
In September of that year Hurricane Helene hit, and my neighborhood had no running water for several weeks. The pocket prairie flourished in the dry spell that followed the storm. While I spent my days learning how to do laundry with bottled water, the prairie burst forth with late-season color, distracting me from the devastation and loss in my community. I was grateful that I didn’t need to use my precious bottled water to keep it alive.
Dakota Wagner
Asheville, North Carolina
At the boarding school I attended, the cool kids did their laundry in town instead of sending it out to a service. While your clothes spun in the coin-operated machines, you had forty minutes to sneak into the graveyard and smoke cigarettes.
When my dad and his girlfriend came to see me graduate, I asked them to drive me to town to do laundry. While we sorted whites from colors, my dad checked the pockets in a pair of jeans. A look of surprise, confusion, and sadness came over his face as he removed an open condom wrapper.
I quickly grabbed the jeans, muttering about them belonging to my roommate. Neither of us said a word about it for the rest of the day.
After my graduation dinner my dad’s girlfriend sat down next to me, patted my knee, and said, “Your dad wants me to tell you that he hopes your first time was special.”
I lowered my head to hide my smirk. It had been far from my first time.
Claire Och
Nairobi, Kenya
On our first day of basic training at Lackland Air Force Base, all sixty women in my flight had to choose a work detail. I raised my hand for “fire monitor” because it sounded cool. Little did I realize it was a euphemism for “garbage-can raider.”
The powers that be believed that any trash left in a metal garbage can, on a tile floor, in an empty dorm—where no implements that produced a spark were allowed—could somehow spontaneously combust and destroy the building. Therefore it was my task, along with another unfortunate trainee, to collect every bit of refuse each time we all left the dorm, which happened six to ten times a day. Hairballs, gum, wet paper towels, and—worst of all—used sanitary products all had to be removed. We couldn’t carry garbage bags out of the dorm, where we could be asked to march or perform facing movements by any training instructors whose paths we might cross. Instead my partner and I had to stuff the unsavory items into the roomy pockets of our combat fatigues.
The fire-monitor position wasn’t all bad. Our duties also included handling the mail, which made us popular with the other trainees. Ironically, because of the volume of mail that sixty people generate, we were allowed to carry it in garbage bags.
Dani Dayton
Albion, Maine
In fourth grade I dressed for school one morning in pink pants and a matching crocheted vest. I had chosen the outfit myself and rushed out the door before my mother could notice. At school I was sent to the principal’s office for not wearing a dress. This was 1969, and girls weren’t allowed to wear pants to school. When the secretary called my house, my mother told her she was too busy doing laundry for eight kids and watching two small children to bring me a change of clothes.
After that, my mom helped the PTA pass a rule that girls could wear pants. I was thrilled. I no longer had to worry about my underwear showing when I played on the monkey bars. I learned to do the “cherry drop,” which involved swinging upside down, then dismounting with a forward flip. This trick often cost me my lunch money, which flew out of the large side pockets most girls’ pants had. Still, wearing pants made me feel I could do anything a boy could do. I played baseball, rode bikes, and earned money mowing lawns. By the summer before sixth grade I had enough money to go shopping for clothes, and I bought my first pair of Levi’s—with a little front pocket that kept your change safe.
Susan Gale
Reno, Nevada
When I pledged a fraternity my freshman year, I was plagued by worries. What if a brother demanded that I empty my pockets in front of the whole cafeteria to show that, as required, I was carrying my “pledge kit”? The kit consisted of a condom, a pair of dice (for impromptu drinking games), and a pocket notebook, which the brothers filled with remarks regarding my worthiness (or lack thereof) to join their ranks. I reminded myself that all the brothers before me had endured this humiliation, and that the pledge period lasted only three weeks.
It was 1979. Thanks to the popularity of the movie Animal House, fraternities were in full swing. Brothers vied to be the most like Bluto, John Belushi’s wild, hard-drinking character. The film’s soundtrack blared as toga-clad students drunkenly danced and hollered, “You make me wanna shout!”
It should have been a red flag that, before attending these festivities, I felt the need to numb myself with a bottle of cheap wine in my dorm. But there weren’t many social options on campus, and I wanted to belong.
Prior to college I’d been a day student at a prep school. People said I had the best of both worlds—a first-class education and roots in my hometown—but I didn’t feel like a part of either place. While the boarders were bonding in the dorms, I was studying alone at home. Meanwhile, to my former public-school classmates, I was now a snooty preppie. When I arrived at college, I was determined not to be an outsider. But as I walked around campus, fingering the dice in my pocket, I wondered if being on the inside was worth the price.
Scott Fleming
Eugene, Oregon
After a holiday trip to my grandparents’ house in Delhi, my parents, my little brother, and I went to the station to catch our train home, all dressed in pajamas for a comfortable journey. Our train was scheduled for 10 pm. At that late hour, the kiosks were closed, and the station deserted.
As we waited, a rough-looking group approached us. One of them pulled out a knife and demanded money. Dad said he had none and explained we had been visiting family and were not tourists. The leader told the others to check Dad’s pockets, but his kurta-style pajamas didn’t have any. The thieves searched our bags and found only clothes, snacks, and jars of pickles from my grandmother. They walked away cursing.
Once we were safely inside the train, Mum said to my father, “I saw you counting money before we left. Did you forget it?”
He smiled. “It’s always best to be cautious during late-night travel.” And he pulled up his pajamas to show us the bulges in his socks.
Roopam Aulakh
Bhubaneswar, India
When my son was five, he asked why I turned out his pockets before doing laundry.
“Because I’m your mama,” I said. “It’s what mamas do.”
The real reason, of course, was that a stray crayon could ruin the whites, or a forgotten wad of gum might wreck the lint tray. Also I just liked knowing what he carried when I wasn’t looking: candy wrappers, Lego figures, Matchbox cars, drawings folded to the size of a stamp.
As he grew up, the contents changed to pencil stubs, band-aids, and a single AirPod. He’s now thirteen, and lately I’ve found a flower, a geode, and a page from a book of poetry in his pockets. I suspect he left them there for me to find, checking to see if I am still paying attention.
Jessica Ciencin Henriquez
Ojai, California
My grandmother always looked for ways to stretch a dollar. The Great Depression had colored her childhood, and my grandfather’s early passing had left her with three children to raise on her own. Whenever we went to a restaurant, she would make “lemonade” by adding a lemon wedge and Sweet’N Low to her water. She loved to fill up on the free bread so she could take home most of her meal. As an added win, she’d stock her purse with extra Sweet’N Low packets.
As I got older, I adopted my grandmother’s habits, filling my pockets with tiny jellies, extra napkins, after-dinner mints, and other restaurant freebies. I didn’t fear going hungry the way my grandmother once had, but I wanted to be like her. She was charismatic, funny, and beautiful, and I followed in her footsteps as much as possible.
Eventually the seams of my overstuffed pockets tore, and the contents slipped inside the lining of my coat. Far from dismayed, I was pleased to have this larger space for condiment packets and plastic utensils.
One day I reached into my pocket and discovered the pancake-syrup containers I’d been hoarding had leaked, turning everything into a sticky mess. The coat was unsalvageable. I realized then how silly I’d been to stockpile these items. My grandmother never would have wanted me to live like I didn’t know where my next meal would come from, and, thankfully, I’ve never needed to.
Pam Stepansky
Humacao, Puerto Rico
After Hurricane Helene devastated western North Carolina, I decided to donate some of my late husband’s clothing to a charity that was helping folks who had lost everything. I picked out sturdy boots, jackets, and jeans—clothes a man could wear while rebuilding a home and salvaging a life.
As I packed each item into the box, I checked the pockets. I didn’t want to unknowingly give away something my husband had valued. He had always carried certain items: His wallet, made of brown leather and worn soft from years of handling. Spare change, which he’d usually toss on his dresser at the end of each day. A bandanna handkerchief that—unfortunately for me, who did the laundry—he used to blow his nose. Sometimes, though, he used paper napkins, which he would leave balled up in a pocket, forgotten until I opened the washing machine to find bits of white paper plastered to all our clothes.
At one time he had carried a Bic lighter, but after his heart attack he never smoked again. The lighter was replaced by an ever-present handful of Halls drops, often left in his jacket from one season to the next until they became permanently adhered to the paper wrappers.
And, always, there was a pocketknife. “Every dad should have one,” he’d say. A package to open? A tightly knotted ribbon on a Christmas gift? A fishing line to cut? He got out his pocketknife. After he died, I found eight of them in his dresser drawers.
Then, as I checked the last jackets for the donation box, I found one more. I weighed it in my hand and ran my thumb over the smooth wooden handle. Instead of keeping it, I slipped it back into the pocket. I imagined some young man, grateful for the warmth of a stranger’s jacket, feeling extra pleased to find the knife and already thinking how it will come in handy.
Elizabeth Brent
Royal Oak, Michigan
Since I was small my family has called me Pie—short both for “Sweetie Pie” and for “Magpie.” Like the bird, I would gather little objects that caught my eye and pass them to my parents to carry: shells, rocks, sticks, feathers. Once, I gave them a batch of live snails right as we stepped into a cab. (I still haven’t lived that down.) The shells and stones weighed down their jackets and pants, but I had no other choice: Girls’ clothing didn’t have spacious pockets. One day, as I passed my dad yet another handful of ocean-smoothed rocks, he said he hoped someday I’d find someone to love who would hold my treasures.
Fifteen years later I’ve fallen in love with a childhood friend. He and I walk down the beach, hand in hand. He waits as I bend down to collect whatever the tides have offered up: sea glass, moon snails, tiny scallops. Patiently, he opens his hands to receive them.
Sarah Hope
Santa Ana, California
For ten years I kept a box cutter in my back left pocket. The habit began when I was stocking shelves in a small cooperative grocery. Every week we filled four recycling dumpsters with cardboard boxes from shipments, and it was the most efficient way to break down boxes, even though I sliced my hand open with one shortly after I started working there.
Years later I became a department manager, but I still kept a box cutter in my pocket for times when employees called in sick or deliveries arrived late, and also during the holidays, when we needed all hands on deck. I got so used to having it with me that I sometimes forgot about it until I was emptying my pockets at airport security and was forced to sheepishly hand it over.
Now that I’ve moved up to a consulting role, I no longer break down boxes. My job takes me on the road to conferences, trade shows, and small organic grocers. I enjoy the work, but when I’m home and a package arrives in the mail, I still reach for my back left pocket, only to come up empty-handed.
Jacob Nachel
Nordland, Washington
I grew up in a stoic family whose members rarely offered encouragement or praise. As a result I’ve harbored plenty of self-doubt and insecurity throughout my life. So it was with trepidation that I accepted an invitation to a weekend wellness retreat where participants would share vulnerabilities.
During our first session it became clear that the attendees were an intellectual group. Although I’m a professional, I’ve never felt confident around those who seem more accomplished than me. My self-consciousness began to grow.
The next morning, a few of us were sitting together, and one of the group leaders pulled a small figurine from her pocket. She said it was her “pocket owl,” and she carried it with her everywhere. I mentioned that owls are my favorite animal.
After the retreat ended, I drove home thinking I’d made a poor impression on the others and lamenting that I hadn’t connected with anyone.
About a week later a small package came in the mail. Inside was a thimble-size ceramic owl from one of the attendees, accompanied by a note saying how much he’d appreciated the calm, safe environment I’d helped create. Soon after that, another package arrived, this one containing a terra-cotta owl and a card from a different retreat participant, saying I was a wonderful person and she was happy we had met.
I place one or both owls in my pocket every time I leave the house—reminders to stop listening to the harmful dialogue in my head and to see myself as others see me.
Karen Shepherd
Social Circle, Georgia
As high school students my twins occasionally arrived home from social outings smelling like marijuana. When I asked if they had been smoking pot, they emphatically asserted their innocence.
Then tweezers began mysteriously disappearing from my purse. No matter how many times I replaced a missing pair, they were gone the next time I reached for them. I knew tweezers could be used to hold a joint, so I gently confronted the twins.
“Mom, you’re nuts,” they said. “We’re not using your tweezers as roach clips.” To tease me, that Christmas they gave me a ten-pack of tweezers. But when these began disappearing as well, I remained suspicious.
In 2016 the twins went off to college. About a year later I reached into the side pocket of my purse for a lip balm and discovered a dime-size hole. Rummaging around, I found the lip balm in the lining of my purse—along with sixteen pairs of tweezers.
I immediately texted the twins to apologize for the years of accusations. They were flush with vindication and gloated every chance they got. Almost ten years later, I continue to receive tweezers in my stocking every Christmas.
Mary Oves
Ocean City, New Jersey
After my father-in-law passed away, my wife and I moved to his cattle ranch. Neither of us knew much about ranching, so we leased the six hundred acres to Nick, a local cowboy who explored the property and told us, “You got yourself a bad weed problem.” Thistles had established themselves in football-field-size patches in the pastures.
Restoring the pastures without toxic herbicides would mean digging up the thistles by hand. Nick and my wife wanted no part of this, so it became my job. I’d head out with a shovel, a large water bottle, and pockets stuffed with snacks to fuel my labors: peanuts and pistachios, an apple or a persimmon, and a few pods of fava beans.
After attacking the weeds for a couple of hours, I’d take a break and eat my snacks. Each felt like a precious treat following all that dusty digging. I would chuck the shells and peels on the ground, where their nutrients could return to the soil. Basking under the wide-open sky, I’d notice details I otherwise would have missed: native flora struggling to survive heavy grazing, a hummingbird sipping nectar, a lizard scampering over an old fence post, hawks perched on a rocky outcropping.
In those moments I caught a glimpse of the land as it had existed long before being cultivated, and I wondered what it would be like to help restore some of it to wildlife habitat. Over the past three years Nick and I have installed bird boxes for kestrels, barn owls, and bluebirds, fenced off several acres of riparian areas, and developed four springs to irrigate new plantings. In each endeavor I carry the spirit of my father-in-law, who loved these hills as much as I do. I also make sure to fill my pockets with snacks, to remind me to sit and be inspired once again.
Paul Grafton
Cayucos, California
