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I'm Major Jackson and this is the slowdown. In my household,

household, some weekends are for antique shopping,

thrifting, estate sales. We love the treasure hunt. I look for

vintage radios. D.D. looks for works of art and garden pots. We love contributing to a culture of recycling.

The sweet drifting into other time periods also appeals to us. Art Deco clocks, mid-century desks, craftsman-style chairs,

1960s pop art lamps. We also do our best to pass along our clutter to our

local thrift store. Once, however, I accidentally loaded a bag of freshly folded dry- cleaned shirts into a donation

card.

They were mixed in with old books, long-held VHS movies, and a few dusty lamps.

When I hurried back to retrieve them, they had already disappeared into the piled goods and boxes of the donation center.

For a year it was jolting to stumble upon my shirts on the racks.

Initially, I did not realize they were previously owned by me and would marvel at someone's good taste.

But many times, I felt like Bill Murray in the movie Groundhog Day that I've been here before feeling.

Looking at the polos, teas, and knitted shirts teased out whatever impulses of fashion that first drew me.

But more, the experience challenged the Greek philosopher's famous adage.

No man ever steps in the same river twice,

for it's not the same river, and he's not the same man.

Writing poems can be a lot like shopping in the thrift store where all the forgotten items are yours.

And the act of finding language is a form of discovery and recovery.

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