The chill air reminded me, once again, that I lived Up North, and that early April was no time to expect warmth and sunshine. I consciously pushed all longings for blue skies and newborn lambs to a back corner of my mind and instead focused on what was around me.

My walk through tree-lined residential neighborhoods, houses small and close together, quickly gave way to a quirky downtown. A stucco 1930s gas station turned restaurant here, a general store there, a fieldstone toy store here, a restaurant that was nothing but windows there. A statuesque bank. Retail stores in all shapes, sizes, and styles.

I looked from left to right, admiring the mix of ages and materials that combined to make a harmonious whole in a way that could never have been planned. This growth was organic, shifting over the years, and the result was the heart and soul of my adopted town.

A knock dragged my attention away from squinting at the twin stone sculptures that had been affixed to the roof of the jewelry store for at least seventy-five years—yep, there were still baby goats up there, and someday I’d learn the story behind that—and I turned to look at retailer Pam Fazio.

My friend Pam, who was smushing her smiling face against the inside of her front door, guaranteeing a need to wash the glass, had fled the corporate world of central Ohio a few years ago. Pam was in her mid-fifties, with short smooth black hair, and she had more marketing and graphic design talent in her fingernail clippings than I would have in the totality of my life. Upon leaving her corporate cubicle, she’d taken a vow that, every day from then on, she’d drink her morning coffee outside in the fresh air. That vow had been made a bit difficult when she’d moved north and had to face subzero temperatures, but she’d solved the problem by interpreting her glassed-in front porch as “outside,” which I found perfectly acceptable.

Now she opened the door and poked her head outside. “Tomorrow!” she yelled, though I was only ten feet away. “Container Day!”

Those two words explained her goofily exuberant mood. During the depths of winter, Pam journeyed overseas to find summer goods for her eclectic store, Older Than Dirt. The fruits of her labors were put into a semitruck container and shipped to Chilson.

The day the container arrived—cleverly dubbed Container Day—was like Christmas for her. She dragooned friends far and wide to help unload, and we were happy to help out. It was fun seeing what she’d purchased, and the pay of as much pizza as we could eat was more than enough compensation.

I gave her a mittened thumbs-up. “I’ll be there.”

“How about Rafe?” she asked. “Because I’ll need to order an extra pizza if he’s coming.”