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It was the Summer of 1977, and the Mt. Calvary Reds 12-and-under baseball team chewed up the competition with Yankee-like effficiency.

For this 11-year-old first baseman, the only thing left to cap off the perfect summer was the end-of-season awards banquet, at which I would receive my first trophy.

But I took my eyes of the prize ever so briefly when I heard we were going on vacation from our Maryland home up the East Coast. The prospect was thrilling, until I started counting the days away and seeing that we would be arriving home the same day as the banquet -- but maybe not in time for the actual event itself.

I recall my mother trying to talk me off the cliff of distress I perched upon as the station wagon hoofed it home. Secretly, I hoped my father understood it all. I had for years played with his old golf trophies, so much so that the clubs the trophy man was swinging had long snapped off. The trophy man looked like he was swinging not so much a 3 wood as he was a conductor's baton.

We made it to the awards banquet. I got the trophy. It sits still on my bedroom dresser.

All of which brings us to the other night, when we took our daughter to her first end-of-season awards banquet for her swim team. The coach called her name. She walked up, reached out her arms and pulled back her first trophy. She beamed.

Once the polite applause subsided for her and her teammates, she walked over to me with an earnest request: "Dad, when we get home, can you polish it?"

Polish it? I was already thinking of building it a cabinet.

The timing is a bit fuzzy at this point, but it was one of those pre-Christmas December days a few years back when you feel the approaching holiday as though Santa's very sack were upon your back. It was cold, overcast, a forecast of snow on the airwaves, the bustle of the holiday.

My wife had been to Learning Express a day prior and saw the store putting out those pretty saucer sleds. The clerks there were even hand-lettering kids' names on them. I was dispatched to come home with said sled.

I was a bit dubious about the name-lettering part; our daughter's name has nine letters, and the dang thing wasn't but maybe two feet wide. But the clerk lettered a nice yellow one -- twice actually, having misspelled the first one. So I brought it home and waited for the snow to blow.

And waited.

And waited.

You get the point; if you have kids at home, their sleds too probably have accumulated more crust and corrosion from leaning up against fertilizer bags than street salts. At first, everytime the forecast called for snow, out I would traipse to the shed to recall the sled and snow shovel. I settled them on the front porch, well covered from the weather but handy for immediate use.

Inevitably, the precipitation failed to solidify or even materialize.

This past weekend, both sled and shovel remained quartered in the shed, perhaps daring the cursed clouds to catch them asnooze. Alas, the sled's slumber went undisturbed.

So here we sit again on the precipice of precipitous ice. But I will not go home, clomp to the shed, shove aside the chain saw and tarp and paint buckets and saw horses to pull out that sled. No, the sled in the shed is firmly abed.

Until later this summer. I think we'll take it to the lake and tow it behind a boat.

You won't see it in Paul Robinson's obituary; he wasn't big on bragging. But Mr. Paul, as he was known by many, was a hero, a gentle soul who served his country, his God and his family. He's the kind of person who gives strength to a community, and his passing takes a little of that strength away.

The Robinsons live around the corner from us. For almost 30 years, they have opened their home on Monday night to lead Bible study lessons for children. The kids come from their church, Parkway Baptist, but also from the surrounding neighborhoods. It didn't matter to Miss Evelyn and Mr. Paul what church your parents went to; as long as you were three years old, you were welcome. Every child got a warm hug coming and going. Every child, every time.

The kids would gather in the small front living room and sing songs at the upright piano, listen to Bible stories, work on crafts and get an ample helping of love and kindness. Whenever one of the kids had a birthday that week, their name would go up on the mirror in big red letters. They were that week's celebrity. Mothers took turns bringing snacks.

Mr. Paul was the quiet one of the couple. He'd gently nudge the children along, sing with them, pray with them, share with them his love of Jesus in a way that kids understood.

I only knew Mr. Paul in his latter years, when life's many tolls had stooped his tall frame and left him frail. I think of the sacrifices he made as a young Marine in the Pacific during World War II, the 39 years he worked for Southern Railway. But I think of him most as the kind neighbor with the easy smile, open arms and a love of God so strong he devoted almost 30 years welcoming children into his home to share that love with them.

That tradition is going to go on; Miss Eveylyn proclaimed it so last night during the visitation. She's going to take a few weeks off, and then she'll be back.

As our 6-year-old daughter stood looking at Mr. Paul at rest, Ms. Evelyn bent over and said, "He's in a much better place now, dear. He's with Jesus." And our daughter agreed.

God bless you, please Mr. Robinson.
Heaven holds a place for those who pray.

Last Thursday, I drove home to pick up my daughter from the school around the corner from us. As I entered the neighborhood, I saw the city leaf-collection crew coming down the street. Since I was planning to take the following day off to blow leaves, I had a few choice words for my ill-adjusted timing.

But as I drove down the street and passed our house, I slammed on the brakes. There, in front of my house was a huge mound of leaves at the curb. The entire front yard had been picked clean and shunted to the street.

I continued on to the school (since I was late, anyway) but began a mental inventory of what possibly could have happened. Had my wife paid someone to do the work as a surprise? No. Had someone owed me a favor and repaid me? No. Would a neighbor have done that for no good reason? Surely not.

When I got home, I went across the street to talk to a neighbor who had been home that day. "I think I saw Jay out there with his backpack blower, yeh," said she, fingering my neighbor to the left.

I spotted Jay in his backyard and asked what he knew about the leaves that, now, were getting sucked up by the leaf crew. His growing smile belied his denial. Truth be told, he said, yeah, he did it.

Turns out his old backpack blower blew up, so he went that day and bought himself a new one. He did his backyard so fast, he wasn't satisfied with having seen enough. "I looked at your yard and wondered how it would do with all those little oak leaves."

40 minutes later, he said, the leaves were at the curb.

Was he repaying me for 10 years of listening to his Led Zepplin basement tribute band and not calling the cops? For all the times his pneumatic tools punctured a quiet Saturday? Or was he just being a guy playing with a new toy and helping out his time-starved neighbor along the way?

I'm not sure that I have been, but I hope in the future to be that kind of neighbor too.

This can also be titled: The Return of the Missing Wallet.

I recently learned more about how the wallet I had lost in the Target parking lot on Lawndale Drive came to be returned to me in its wholeness.

First, I have since learned the name of the UPS driver who found the wallet in the parking lot and took it across the street to Miller Vision. The staff at Miller tells me his name is Joel. So Joel, if you're reading, "thank you" is inadequate, but it's a start.

In my overwhelming joy at getting my wallet back, I stupidly displayed an astounding case of myopia. I failed to see -- and ask about -- the broader picture of the effort some of the staff there at Miller Vision went to.

In the words of Tammy at Miller Vision: "Donna H. and I were the ones that actually found a way to contact you... I called the police station to inquire about turning in the wallet. We also looked in the phone book, but the address on your license did not match any in the phone book. We reluctantly searched your wallet (we didn't want to snoop) but we felt it was important in this situation. Donna called Verizon, on the off chance that they could help. What a relief for us when he was able to contact you!"

Neither of them wants to toot their horn, but it's important that we all know their honesty and goodness. Part of the reason why I didn't stay that day and talk to them more was because of how busy they were; everyone was doing something with or for a patient. Only now do I realize that, as busy as they were, they took the time to return that wallet to me.

To the ladies there, like Joel at UPS, let me start with "thank you."

Since I don't wear glasses or contacts, I don't regularly have my vision tested. Perhaps it's time; maybe then I won't have to rely so much on hindsight.

One of the benefits to working downtown is proximity to the Bargain Box, the second-hand goods store run by the Junior League of Greensboro. Clothes are the main staple here, but there's always a wide selection of odds and ends, some of which are odd and some of which should have met an end long ago. But for the most part, the place rocks when it comes to finding good-condition things.

We've both subsidized and patronized the Box over the years. Sometimes, walking into the store is like walking into our closet from a year ago. About half of our daughter's closet cache came from the Box.

Got qualms about wearing other people's clothes? While the line might reasonably be drawn at monograms and ring-around-the-collar, I've worn many a shirt that bore someone else's name on the collar. Think the clothes won't hold up or are in poor condition? Last week, my 10-month-old son was sporting a red Talbots Kids cable-knit sweater that looked familiar. Turns out I bought it from Bargain Box for my daughter a few years ago. A Brooks Brothers dress shirt I bought four years ago is holding up well.

Then there are the Box's sales, which prompts this posting. The store hosts sales several times a year, and these are not piddly sales. The one today is 40 percent off. I've been to sales where discounts were 60 and 75 percent.

Don't take these sales lightly; think rugby without the manners. Getting in the place today required three "excuse me's." If you haven't started your holiday shopping at the stores yet, going to the Bargain Box sale will prep you for crowd management.

"I'm surprised a fight hasn't broken out in here yet," said the woman in front of me.

My haul this trip: three sweaters (one of them cashmere) and an Abercrombie and Fitch casual shirt. I paid $18.