Solamente Una Cosa

A Southern California neighborhood, a mixture of the upper middle class who drive giant SUVs and the working folks who ride the bus. Old and new. Anglo and Hispanic.

One place that those cultures can overlap is in the local thrift stores.

I have a hobby of cruising thrift stores to find old treasures. A deep-dish Pyrex pie pan or a cut-crystal wine goblet for a dollar. A hand embroidered pillowcase, beloved in the 40’s and 50’s, now waiting for a new home, 50 cents.

I was in one of my favorite haunts when I overheard a conversation between a Hispanic mother and her daughter. The girl, who looked about six, was holding up what she had found.

One rubber ball with the earth painted on it in blue and green and two dog-eared books.

“Non solamente una cosa,” her mother said. Even with my very limited Spanish, I understood. “No, only one thing.”

I peeked over the racks of worn jeans lined up by size, to look more closely at her treasures. A grade-three multiplication workbook, a how-to art book, and the ball, where some of the green paint had chipped off South America. She walked away from her mother, head down, shoulders stooped.

I thought of my granddaughters, who attended a private school and had shelves bulging with toys and books. I pretended to browse nearby and stalled. I wanted that girl to have those books. I wanted her to have what those books represented—the learning and freedom and power that could come with them. And that ball of the world too. For the fun she could have.

As I bought my two wine glasses for $1 each, I thought how even one more dollar could buy her treasures. But could I interfere? What if the mother completely misunderstood my wanting to help? What if she felt insulted? Then she would be angry at me. I could apologize. I would be embarrassed, but I could get over it.

I decided it was worth the risk.

I walked back around to where the mom hunched over the rack of children’s clothes, searching for the nearly new cast offs of the affluent neighborhood.

“Excuse me?” I asked. She moved to get out of my way.

I asked her if she spoke English. I saw a flash of alarm in her eyes. But then she made the ‘two fingers close together’ motion. “A little.”

I held out the dollar. “Para la nina, por los libros,” I stammered, hoping my mixture of French, English and Spanish would translate. She looked at the dollar and at me, confused. A man in the next aisle of the men’s clothes, smiled. 

“Would you help me,” I asked?

“Tell her,” I said, “that I have granddaughters the same age as her daughter. Tell her, please, that I would like to buy those books and the ball for her daughter.” 

He spoke to her in rapid Spanish. I looked back and forth between them.

Her eyes grew wide and she looked at me. I held my breath. Then she smiled. She took the dollar.

The man, it turned out, was the dad. The girl hovered nearby, still clutching her books and ball, standing very still, paying close attention. 

I smiled at her and admired the ball. She said, “thank you,” in English.

“Lots of books,” the dad motioned to the pile in his arms. “For my son too.” I noticed a Curious George paperback in his stack and remembered reading that to my daughters so long ago.

As I left the store, I paused and stole a look back over my shoulder.

The girl was laying the two books and the ball on the counter. She stood up straight and held out the dollar to pay.  

The cash register chimed as the volunteer took the money. The girl gathered up the books and the ball and held them close.

And she was smiling.

Copyright Diane Covington 2023