The Food Box is a local grocery store that I visited infrequently before, but it is the closest store to my new residence. The prices there are comparable to the Walmart, they have to be if they hope to stay alive with the competition, but like most of the original businesses in the area, they are struggling with big chains taking their customers as Hestinia continues to grow and bleed into small towns like Raesport. For the most part, it`s just the old fogies like me that make up the bulk of their customer base these days. Whether or not the rising generation will replace us is what these small businesses hinge their hopes for survival on, but even the big companies are trying to adapt to the changing consumer market of online shopping and delivery services. If they are struggling, I`m not sure what chance these small stores have. Out here in the formerly middle of nowhere, online shopping hasn`t been very accessible until quite recently, but even us country folk and ruralites (and, yes, I did just make that word up) have jumped on the convenience of this trend. What`s not to like about endless options at the tips of your fingers that arrive on your doorstep after a brief waiting period?

　　But then I walk into shops like the Food Box, and I remember the value of stepping out my front door and into a community of interactable humans. It`s the little things: waving acknowledgement at a stranger and then ignoring them by avoiding eye contact, asking a store clerk a question and getting a small dose of cheerful assistance or the odd over or under explaining, or hearing a small child pitching a fit over the lollipop their boundary-setting mother won`t buy them and appreciating the hilarious consistencies of children and parenting through the ages- hilarious only because I`m not the one doing the parenting.

　　What do I want to eat this week? Maybe a better question is what do I think I can reasonably cook in a seriously old-timey kitchen? And quickly so I don`t lose tons of time I could be spending on other projects? And with ingredients that won`t overwhelm a mini fridge? And reasonably nutritious? Hm. Maybe this is going to be harder than I thought. But I`m confident that I can boil water at the very least. Eggs, oatmeal, noodles&. Oh! And baking potatoes! Camp food&. Alright, not so hard. A good dutch oven can make a lot of tasty dishes. Dump it in, let it cook for a few hours over hot coals, check on it at strategic intervals&. Mm. A breakfast sausage bake, a cobbler, a casserole- all messy and delicious. Aluminum foil! That will make the clean up easier. Ok. Before I lose my meal ideas, I snatch a small notepad and pen out of my purse and jot down some notes, and one pot of anything will feed just me for a few days.

　　It`s going to be an adjustment working with only a small fridge`s worth of space. My shopping buggy filled up way too quickly; more frequent, smaller hauls may be necessary. And now I must make choices and return the items that will have to be collected on a different day.

　　The mental checklist now one task lighter, it is time to hit a hardware store before returning to the house to rearrange some furniture. Brown, paper sacks in the trunk of my old sedan, I drive through the light, early morning traffic of the parking lot, eventually coming to the corner that turns onto the main road. There is a panhandler leaning against the stop sign with a blank expression and dead eyes. I`ve always been curious about how panhandlers find their way out to small towns like Raesport. What draws them to a place where resources are limited, people don`t have spare change, and the locals are wary of outsiders? I have considered asking before, but there is a certain danger inherent in trusting a stranger enough to roll down the barrier of your car window and engage them in conversation. Today I settle for studying the current, presumably homeless man`s face. The levels of melanin in his skin suggest Latin American descent, but then again, he might just be suntanned and dirty. Well, he is dirty. But it`s not just the melanin that makes me think he`s latino. It`s in his face structure: higher cheekbones, a wider nose, black hair, and the deeper creases at the corners of the eyes and across the forehead. Yes. Latino. How did he find his way all the way to Raesport? And what was he hoping to find here? What led him to this corner, holding up a grubby cardboard sign bearing poor penmanship in broken english?Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

　　And how should I interact with such a person?

　　My pity is worthless, my prayers trite, my acknowledgement unhelpful, my wallet empty except for my credit card. The ethical dilemma of giving money to panhandlers is an odd one, don`t you think? Every year, I see some new article about panhandling being a scam. People making exorbitant sums from standing on a street corner looking pathetic. But not in Raesport. There isn`t much expendable income in a place like this. A spare dollar here and there might buy you dinner by the end of the day, but you`re not going to have a fancy car hiding around the block. But then, how can I guarantee that the money will even go to basic necessities like food? I don`t want to fund the next drug score. A faulty stereotype to be sure, because all homeless people must be drug addicts. (Please don`t overlook my sarcasm.) Over the years, I have come to the conclusion on the whole that it is not my responsibility to determine the use of charitably given funds, not that I have the cash to dispense most of the time, but the point is, it`s on the beggar to use their money wisely. Does that make me an irresponsible citizen for passing out loose change from time to time? Maybe. The jury is still out.

　　Somehow, these thoughts have kept me company all the way to Bits`n`Boards. I`m here for sheets of plywood and a box of long screws with which to board up all the broken windows on the main level of the house. Officer Milton last night was one hundred percent correct. Soward`s mansion has a history of attracting unsavory people. I should at least put up minimal obstacles to prevent break-ins.

　　"Mornin`, Lottie!"

　　"Henry, it`s been a while!" It`s always nice to be greeted by a familiar face at these sorts of establishments. Henry has walked me through a number of home improvement projects over the years.

　　"Must be a pickle of a problem."

　　"And what makes you say that?"

　　"The creases of your scowl just now were practically ditches!" he laughs, and I remind myself of what I was thinking about when I first walked in: preventing break-ins.

　　"Ah. You are only half right. The problem has a simple solution, but it is a serious problem."

　　"Oh? Color me intrigued! And, yes, we could probably find the right color in our paint selection," comes the regularly reused dad-joke. "What sort of problem are you fixing?"

　　"I need to board up quite a few windows."

　　He frowns, the gears grinding in his head almost visible, a vague concern surfacing. "Why are you boarding up your windows? Is this some kind of depression response after-?"

　　"No! No, Henry. I sold that house. I bought the Soward`s mansion, so, actually, you`re going to be seeing a lot of me for the next while."

　　"The Soward`s mansion! I`d say so!" Dollar symbols seem to pop from his eyes as he internalizes this fact. Henry is a master at his craft and a wonderful resource of ideas. He`s also easy to trust because he is comically easy to read. "Screws and timber today?"

　　"You nailed it," I offer the pun and get a ready laugh in return.

　　Henry guides me unnecessarily to the aisle of screws, pulling what he thinks I should want off the shelf before I even have a chance to look at my options, but I trust his judgment on such things. The lumber area is next, and he helps me pick out the right plywood thickness for what I`m trying to accomplish.

　　"How many windows?"

　　"I don`t know. A lot. I need as many of these as can fit in my car, and then I`ll be back tomorrow with a count of however many windows still need to be done."

　　"Hm&. Maybe ten sheets of this stuff to start with then?"

　　Soon enough, my car is fit to bursting with fourteen sheets of plywood and two boxes of screws that rattle as I drive down pothole lane and into the gravelly driveway. Let the work begin.