It was time. The floors in the coops were full of manure and stripped of bugs. The hens were itchy for new turf. On an unseasonably warm day I packed three bins into the van and headed to the mulch piles a mile away. A few doors down from my driveway I slowed down to get a closer look at a basket of apples. A sign from my magnanimous neighbor offered them for free. They were even organic. Such generosity felt as warm as the air, as I gathered up a few pieces of fruit and set them on the seat beside me. 

The mulch piles are provided by my township for local gardeners, and I was not the only person to arrive with a shovel. Actually, the truck next to me was armed with a pitch fork. A big one. It looked like a bale of hay would fit nicely on its tines. 

I began to scoop up rich black earth. The man next to me saw how pathetically small my efforts were and offered to fill one of my buckets. 

"Thanks!" I said. 

In no more than two heave hoes the bucket was filled to the brim. I continued with my shovel, and laughed at how slow the progress was. He filled another, while we chatted about gardens. What a difference the right tool makes.

After I got home I spread the mulch around the coops, and hens were curious to investigate. Soft. Black. Porous. Quite different from the hard packed ground they were used to. 

In the afternoon I wrote thank you letters to the eight people who volunteered in the children's room at the conference. They had kindly showed up to dance, and sing, and play. The least I could do was acknowledge them. I had verbally thanked people who donated raffle prizes, but secretly hoped the recipients would be so inclined. 

The list of people who are motivated by altruism is a long one. What is more the act of appreciating them made any tendency to complain seem out of date.