Mom can probably tell the story better (and correctly), but when I was little, Grandpa H apparently had me convinced that finding washers was waaaay better and luckier than finding money on the ground. I didn’t realize the source of my fascination until Mom told me the story (I think I was in college, or at least high school), just thought that everyone knew washers were the coolest thing to find and keep. I still do it- when I see a neat washer on the ground, it’s probably coming with me.
Sunday, while I was planting a bunch of violas and pansies in the pot next to the tulip poplar stump, I was thinking about Grandpa H for some reason. Nothing too specific, just thinking about him. Maybe about when we’d watch Colts games together (both falling asleep during the 3rd quarter), or his hats, or the pumpkin pie he would make. Or maybe about the washers. But as I pulled out a viola from the flat and bent down to put it in the pot, my gloves covered in dirt, a shiny clean washer fell out of nowhere and plopped in the loose dirt.
I picked it up, said “Hi, Grandpa,” put it in my pocket, and finished my gardening.