SECRETS OF THE GIFT HOUSE

I snagged this ancient LP -- the soundtrack from the classic murder mystery, Charade, at the Gift House last month. I thought I'd give the record to my husband for Christmas. He is an occasional Mancini fan.

It sat on my desk in my office for awhile, giving off a pretty terrible moldy smell. When I couldn't take it any more, I decided to toss it out. I pulled out the album from the sleeve to see its condition. A note fell out. A love note.

There are no names mentioned, or dates recorded. But the handwriting seems to be a woman's, and fairly old fashioned -- a sort of well-bred, private school type of cursive that has gone out of use. It was written on the binding of a hardcover book (!) and then torn out.

The author describes love as "maturity of spirit" and "the power that transcends all things petty."

"It is," she says, "you in every way."

The love she has been given is "a gift to cherish forever. My life is complete. I need nothing more than to know you love me, and this I know with all my being."

GAMES GALORE

Where did all these games come from? Dozens of vintage games have arrived at the Gift House over the last few weeks. It's funny to think that, not long ago, there was time for things like this. There was so much time, you needed to fill it up.

Too Strange to Take?

Not too many things linger for months at the Gift House. They get taken. Or they get tossed. Our director of volunteers, Joan Reed, sees to that. This painting is one exception. In it, a pink and blue colonial house is seen from above -- almost an aerial perspective. The house is surrounded by fields and a grove of trees that look like lollypops. A yellow road leads to a pond or small lake where a white fishing boat, named ART, is docked and a sailboat with no visible sailor is out on the water. In the foreground, a small black figure is standing by a crude rendering of a vehicle -- a tractor? There seems to be a story to this work, but what is it? The name of the artist, written in black paint, is now too blurry to read. Each week, things come and go. Nothing inside the Gift House stays the same, except this. It's always there, sitting on a shelf above the toys, where I put it eighteen months ago.

End of Summer Wreath

Dave and Lloyd and I were standing around, reminiscing about summer -- and how busy we'd been, how crowded the Cape seemed, and how many houseguests we had. It's so much nicer in September, we all agreed. Nice and quiet. We looked up. Right over our heads was a wreath. It was cluttered with every kind of cliche summer object --folding chair, beach umbrella, sand toys, red lobster, life preservers. The only thing missing was a parking ticket. There were a few jokes about how we should pitch it into the dumpster. But Lloyd, the smiling guy on the right, was sure that somebody would come along for it. But it's still there.

Everybody Needs a Hotline

How could you resist this?

Ignoring the Signs

It doesn't matter how many signs are posted at the transfer station. Or how strategically they are located. Nobody cares. Tradition seems to require that you leave lots of old furniture, and heaps of boxes, outside the Gift House when it's closed. Then you drive away. This makes the transfer station guys unhappy. You can't imagine how much.

A second sign urging people to stop leaving their stuff was put on the side of the Gift House today.

Killing With a Smile

It took awhile for the Gift House volunteers to figure out what these smiling snails do. They are little cups that you fill with beer and position in your garden to lure snails and slugs to their death. (In case you don't know, snails and slugs love beer but don't know how to swim in it.) If you look at that smile long enough, you'll see how depraved it really is.

Grandmother Scores Free Chopper

This handsome little motorbike was dropped off this week. As soon as it emerged from the back of a red pick up, three people swarmed around it --- hoping to land it. The winner was a tenacious grandmother Dottie, a gift house regular. She said, "It's mine!" with such vigor and determination, nobody wanted to argue with her. She claimed that she was getting it for her 18 grandkids, but . . . she looks pretty great on it, doesn't she?

Does a Hamster Need a Wheel?

Be busy, and you will be safe. Ovid, Remedia Amoris

Lots of empty animal cages and kennels come into the Gift House. There is a sense of finality to them. Always it’s the adults who bring them in, and set them down gently, gingerly, timidly. We stack the empty cages in a corner near the sporting equipment. To me, there is nothing more poignant than the sight of an empty hamster’s cage. It is almost hallowed ground, a pure space where a solitary creature worked and slept and kept busy – a strange slave to his wheel and bowl – and where he was the focus of bewilderment, a funny kind of adoration.

Last week, this lovely blue cage arrived. There was tape stuck on it with the words, "Say Hello to Lewey Everyday."

Free Boarding

There's a dry erase board in the Gift House. A few weeks ago somebody was looking for "a signed Mikel Jackson glove." The misspelled name added to the joke somehow. It was a great source of amusement, and then, mysteriously, the listing was erased! Had a glove been found?

Everybody Is Groucho

Somebody dumped a bag of Groucho Glasses at the Gift House this week. Before a minute had lapsed, everybody who was milling around the Gift House was wearing a pair.

Does anybody under 60 recognize the name Groucho Marx? Apparently it doesn't matter. The film comedian has left behind a legacy that is funny whether you have pre-existing knowledge of him or not. When you put on a pair of Groucho glasses -- with the massive plastic nose, bushy eyebrows and horrible mustache -- you become a comedian yourself. For a few minutes, anyway. Then everybody wishes you'd go back to your normal self.

Did Somebody Stop Believing in Miracles?

It seems wrong to throw certain things away -- holy saints, Buddhas, baby Jesus statues. So they wind up at The Gift House, waiting for a new home. I've brought in a few Buddhas myself -- and they are nabbed almost instantly. This trio of Jesus, Mary + Joseph is actually a lamp. It didn't last two days. Irresistable.

Not sure exactly who these gals are, but you have to admire their restraint.

Composting Matter

Come on down and see the new mountain of compost behind the Gift House. It's almost as tall as the roof. It's free for anybody with a dump sticker.

Cookie cutters

If you're inthe mood for baking, you can spell almost anything with these cookie cutters except words with an "H."

NOBODY WANTS THIS?

Nobody wants this? It's been sitting in the Gift House for a year, maybe more. We probably should have chucked it in the dumpster by now, but honestly, every week it is sitting there looking so blue and appealing, so Scandinavian and delightfully '70s. I just can't bear to see it vanish into oblivion. Please, somebody, anybody, come bring this tray home.

Dump Scenery

Quiet moments do come inside the Gift House. I looked out the window and noticed something strange on the side of an Old Colony Scrap container. Just a few letters had been removed:

A week later it was gone.

Old vinyl sounds

Spring arrived. Things have been so busy at the Gift House, there's barely time to breathe, much less document the ebb and flow of stuff. There are tons of LP's now --- the old vinyl that music nuts and the Japanese are collecting with abandon. There's a pile of ancient 78s, too.

A month ago, an old Victrola with a crank handle came in. It was in a big wooden cabinet and seemed like an albatross. Who would ever want that? We played some of the 78s, and cranked the crank handle. It was fun for awhile. Nice and scratchy music sounds. Wow.

The Victrola lasted two days in the Gift House. A guy came by, saw the Victrola, and returned with a van to take it off to Odd Fellows Hall in Orleans, where it will be restored and displayed. There's nothing like an old thing being brought back to life. Thanks, Odd Fellows!

Soup for the Onion Lovers Soul

A guy came in the Gift House. He had a box under his arm. "I don't really want to part with these," he said, "but my wife doesn't seem interested in making onion soup. I bought them hoping that she would. But she won't. Maybe there's somebody out there who'd like them." He pulled a set of four brown covered ceramics pots from the box. We set them down on the back counter, where all the china and kitchen stuff goes. They didn't get taken right away. But last week, when I went to work at the Gift House, they were gone. All I can think about now is the taste of onion soup on a cold winter night - -and how maybe somebody's having some right now.