Phil O’Dendron
His name is Phil. Phil O’Dendron, actually. He is for sure of Irish extraction, as evidenced by his shiny green leaves. I rescued him from the floral section at Market Basket when I asked the clerk for a plant I could not kill. “I have just the thing for you,” she assured me. So I brought him home, repotted him, and set him on a little wrought iron stand in a corner near my bathroom sink. Over the weeks, he has rewarded me by not dying. Every now and then I remember to give him a drink, and he gratefully continues to thrive.
I don’t think he’s getting a fair shake in life. He’s almost completely ignored and yet he lives on to please me. So I pause to wonder. How many people in my life am I treating like Phil? How many do I consider to be there only for my convenience? How many do I see as less valuable than myself?
Phil made me remember the man I saw in Goodwill one day. He must have been in his 50’s, a bit on the paunchy side, wearing old jeans and a faded t-shirt. You wouldn’t notice him in a crowd. He and his wife had collected a cartload of treasures, and he was one happy guy. I couldn’t help but notice him in front of me in the checkout line. Waiting my turn with my bargain books in hand, I glanced into his cart, hoping to spot the source of his delight. But all I could see were two Dunkin’ coffee mugs and, among other odds and ends, a couple of large framed pictures, somewhat frayed around the edges.
“I can’t believe all this neat stuff we got!” he crowed. His wife rolled her eyes. I think she was somewhat embarrassed by his exuberance.
Tenderly he placed two large pictures on the counter. “I just love this picture!” he said. “It reminds me of my aunt’s house in Vermont. Right around the corner was a path that led to a brook and a waterfall just like this one. My cousin Jamie and me used to go there to swim. We could stand right under that waterfall and it would pour down on us! Can you imagine that? And oh, that house…”
His voice trailed off as he realized that his wife was preoccupied with paying for all their “neat stuff”. But I heard him. I so wanted to say, “Oh, please tell me about that house!”
I suppose you can’t do that in the middle of the Goodwill store, but it sure would have been fun to hear more.
