Synchronicity Unfolds – Cheviot
My plan to wander a new neighborhood in the city… evolved. I hadn’t planned to go to the village of Cheviot. It’s not technically a Cincinnati neighborhood.
But—so what?
I’m wandering without why. So why not adapt as the spirit moves—this time, nudging my car a few miles west. It came to rest in a municipal parking lot surrounded by a whole new set of flâneuring possibilities.
My first stop was a small alterations shop with a sign promising same-day service. As it happened, I had a jacket in the car that needed just that. Alas—this was not the day, nor the jacket, for same-day miracles. But maybe something good would happen, if I were to beleive the windshield sticker on the car next to mine.
Still, the seamstress offered kind advice and a few suggestions for places to explore. And one warning: “Don’t go left.”
So, of course, I turned left.
That’s where I met Pacita. She was settling herself onto a bench from her rollerator — her favorite bench, she told me, because it sits right across from the fire department.
“When I fall down,” she explained matter-of-factly, “the nice EMT men come over and pick me back up.”
Good plan, Pacita. We shared a few stories — of family, of faith — and blessed one another before I continued on, this time turning right.
A few blocks later, I came upon a small hardware store — the kind Home Depot once imagined it could replace. But in this west-side village, people still value the personal touch and the neighborly handshake.
I recognized the store’s name — a friend of mine used to work at another location years ago. I wasn’t shopping for anything in particular; I just wanted to remember that feeling of belonging.
Still, I found an item that might solve a problem that had been vexing me. The man behind the counter agreed it would do the trick.
He assumed I must be new in town, since he’d never seen me before.
When I explained my Tuesday wandering practice, I asked if he’d ever worked with my old friend who’d retired eight years ago.
“That’s my brother!” he said.
Though they looked nothing alike, I smiled. “Of course you are.”
There are no coincidences when flâneuring. And if I had any doubt of that, my stop at the local thrift shop dispelled it completely.
Now, I’m not a thrifter. But I have friends who are, and curiosity nudged me inside this cavernous store. Room after room, a jumble of treasures and oddities — but few clothes, and certainly no men’s section.
No matter; I wasn’t looking.
And then — there it was. On a rack marked “Women’s Blazers,” one dark brown microsuede jacket that looked as though it might fit a broad-shouldered man.
On a whim, I tried it on. Perfect. Five dollars.
I preached in it the next Sunday — and I have never, in sixty-two years, received more compliments on a single piece of clothing.
Some of us spend our lives seeking earth-shattering miracles. Others deny the possibility altogether.
Wandering without why reminds me that small miracles abound — if we free ourselves to notice them.
Even in a little village on the west side of Cincinnati.
