Earlier this spring, this arrived at my house:
Yes, a lump of dirt with grass attached. In a soggy, soiled paper towel.
I was thrilled.
I potted it the next morning. Although a few blades instantly turned white, as if lesser soil had suddenly sucked all the chlorophyll out of them, 24 hours later the grass was thriving again. It’s still growing strong today.
It truly felt (and feels) like a sacred object — much moreso than most items ever decreed holy by official decreers of holiness.
Oh, and you see that white stone at its roots? That’s Plymouth Rock. Well, it’s a Plymouth rock, off the beach where the Pilgrims landed.
I’m not allowed to tell you the full story of these items, which is a pity because it’s got very funny parts and sad ones. And I suppose for caution’s sake I should say I’m lying about all of the above and it’s actually grass and rock from somebody’s regular old back yard. Believe what you wish.
Suffice to say that the friend who … er, obtained the sacred (or not) relics is clearly not cut out to be a master criminal. If he were in a caper film, he’d be the comic relief character.