For some years I lived in subsidized senior and disabled housing. I loved it. I made two good friends, M and N, who still live there.

When I moved in, M, my next door neighbor, came to introduce himself and his beautiful cat, and the two of us, plus the cat, got to be buddies. N was already M's friend, and we became a trio. M would often buy a bag of pork chops or chicken parts at Aldi's, N would cook, and I'd provide dessert. We had a lot of friendly meals like that in T's beautiful apartment.

One thing I greatly appreciated about living there and wish I could recreate was the underground economy. Clearly, no one there had any money, but that was significantly offset by circulation of goods throughout the building. For instance, I had two little glass dishes I'd bought at Salvation Army for $0.50, a really pretty blue, that I kept outside my door for next door cat's water and treats. One day I went out my door and found they were gone. Someone had liked them and taken them; in return, they had left me a healthy green plant. I never found out who did it; I never tried. I was satisfied with the swappage and hoped the new owner enjoyed their new old dishes—maybe for their own cat?

Another time someone gave M, who has a degree in interior design and whose apartment shows it, a new floor lamp. He offered me his old one—I don't know where he got it, from someone else, no doubt. He put the lamp outside my door one evening. The next day it was gone. Okay, no problem. Later that day it was back. I guess the new owner found it didn't fit in with their decor, but it looked fine in my place.

So much giving-away went (and probably still goes) on in the building! One day I found a pair of orange linen pants left on the table in the lobby, and I snagged them right away. They were perfectly clean and needed no repair, and I used the fabric to line a red bag I'd crocheted for magical items. In this case I had a pretty good idea who had left them, since they were men's pants and only one man on the floor would be caught dead in orange linen pants, or could fit into these, and he's quite a handsome peacock. But no one said anything—and that's part of what made the system work. It was anonymous, so no one had to have any feelings about giving or taking.

Anonymous except when F, who has a medical marijuana permit that allows her to grow four plants, shared the bounty she produces on her balcony. That's very special, one has to be part of her circle of friends to be included, and much chocolate needs to be provided in return—I hear, ahem . . .

Or the food from people's monthly Survival Center and Food Bank bags. They always include a jar of peanut butter, and when someone has enough they put the new jar out on the table, where it lasts only a very short time before it's gratefully received. Or someone goes to the Wednesday bread distribution and discovers they don't like the filling in the bag of day-old danish they got and puts it on the table. Gone—just like that. I suppose it's possible people are hoarding, but I'm sure the reality is that their Social Security and food stamps haven't stretched quite far enough this month.