It's Still the Same Old Story

It's Still the Same Old Story

I awake in plenty of time. 

It’s 8:30, the last day in the school year at Franklin School in Summit, NJ where daughter Ashley teaches - third grade, Special Education 

 

Today I've been asked to pick up grandson Johnny, age 8, at the school. He came to Franklin with his mom for an early morning play-date with one of Ashley’s students, Jason. It's a special last day favor for Jason.

"Don't be late," my daughter reminded me, the night before. 

 

"Alarm set," I replied.

I leave my home at 9:20 toting two cups of coffee. The day is perfect – sunshine, humidity, temperature, all perfect. An old Sinatra CD is in the player. The song - "It Could Happen to You." The vegetation along the road is lush, the earth having broken the spell of a worrisome April drought. All windows are open; the air is crisp, cool on my face.

Rolling through residential streets of Chatham, my cell phone rings. I have what is called a “Bluetooth” connection in my car. Like many high-tech terms, years went by before I learned what “Bluetooth” actually meant.  Still not certain, but I’m guessing it means talk through car speakers because a dashboard display says Bluetooth whenever the phone rings in the car. So Bluetooth, “phone in car.” Got it.

The call is from my daughter. “Did you get any of my texts?” she says.

I remind Ashley that I’ve only recently abandoned my vow to make it through life without ever texting and so am not in the habit of looking for text messages. You know? 

“I’m almost at your school,” I say.

“Johnny’s not here,” she says.

“Oh?”

“He went to Kyle's house," she says, "but that’s OK, because I have Eddie’s bike in my car and he wants it to ride to the pool. So you can take it back.”

“OK, great,” I say.

Ashley is waiting for me in the parking lot, standing next to the bike.

“Will this fit in your car?” she says.

I grab the bike, grunting as I hoist it up and into to my hatchback-like trunk, then shoving it, with some more effort, past the seat back, barely clearing the trunk's bottom lid. Did I hear a rip? Not sure. 

Definitely tore some upholstery, I think.

"Is it in?" Ashley says.

“No problem,” I say.

With bike packed, I head back to Ashley’s home. Passing through the streets of Summit, again, a warm feeling comes over me. The small city, with people up and about on a beautiful day. Kids on the street corner carrying ice coffee cups, straws poking out of dome lids (ice cream sundae in a cup), a serious jogger woman on the shoulder ahead, seemingly pulled by a dog on a leash, teens on bikes they have outgrown, riding on sidewalks, two smiling grandparents, together pushing a triplet baby stroller.

Just saying ... really feeling good today.

At my daughter’s house son-in-law Tom is in the driveway. "Got Eddie's bike." I announce.

“Eddie doesn't need it; he already left for the pool,” Tom tells me.

“He did?”

“He couldn’t wait. So we found a spare bike at Grandma’s house. I drove over (ten minutes cross town) and got that one for him.”

“Wow,” I say, then add, “Whatever.” I'm thinking, that was a lot of effort just to get Eddie going to the pool a few minutes earlier.

Tom and I haul the, now unneeded, bike from my trunk.  

Eddie is 11. The reason he could not wait, I now suspect, is that two weeks ago, according to his mom, Ed sent a text message to a girl in his class asking if she would be his girlfriend. She said, “Yes,” and so began their fifth grade courtship and, I might add, at least in my view, a bit of new urgency as it relates to some of Ed's summer activities.  

The manner of children officially declaring affection has changed over the years. Today texting apparently does it. First, however, there is still that time honored school-days tradition, as follows: float the idea, not among the principals, but rather, among friends of principals. In other words, have Eddie’s friends ask Mary’s friends if Eddie were to ask Mary to be his girlfriend would Mary say yes.

If the answer is affirmative you pop the question - by texting of course.

As for the rest of the story, well …actually ... from my observation it seems that it's still the same old story – the fight for love and glory.

First Grade Field Trip - Spring 2011

First Grade Field Trip - Spring 2011

Field Trip - Yea!!! Great
The school year is winding down. My assignment today is to accompany grandson Eddie on his first grade field trip to a local “U-Pick-'em” farm for a family picnic lunch, and hayride to the strawberry patch. Of note is that the forecast is for full sun, temperature in the high nineties, very humid. 

  Early Arrival
I arrive, at the farm around 10:20, a bit early. Kids, in school buses, are due shortly after 10:30. I find a spot on the matted grass lot with a view of the complex, a gift shop at the entrance, a half dozen party tents each shading picnic tables, separate fenced-off petting zoo areas for sheep, donkeys, horses, peacocks, and goats etc. Plus the fields - acres and acres of vegetables, fruit trees, and pumpkins, all in various states of blossom. The works - if only I were in first grade.

A handful of mothers gather about the tents, talking mother-speak. There is a grandparent couple – my generation – dressed in long pants and matching white golf shirts. They stand attention-like and apart from the mothers, squinting with a worried gaze fixed on the entryway, anxiously anticipating the bus arrival, but looking as if expecting a tornado.

I amble over. We are well acquainted, regulars at school pick-up. We trade friendly one-liners and gracious laughs. “The buses are a little late,” we say, our brows furrowed.

Finally the yellow school bus shows up. Kids file out directed by teachers and helping-mothers. 

Set the Table
The adults set out the packed lunches as children race about on the grass. “Family picnic” is the designated starting activity. The eating begins. Kids finish in a jiffy and return to tag games. I sit with the grandparents. Hay wagons rumble by in my side view. Thirty minutes in and counting. Various groups scramble aboard and the wagons, pulled by tractors, chug away - dust in their wake - over a hill, out of site. 

Finally it is our turn. Kids and parents march to a waiting wagon, climb up, squeezing into space on hay bale seats. I back away, watching from a safe distance. A few parents wave, beckoning me to come along. I wave them off. The tractor starts, and the loaded wagon inches ahead, kicking up dust. Grandson Ed is on board.  I wait for the wagon to get along, then step out on the same road, hiking solo. I decide not to trail the wagon exactly and I notice some riders looking back at me, laughing. When the wagon turns to the right, goes over a small hill and then out of sight, I continue straight ahead and soon I am alone on an empty road, corn on my left, tomatoes to the right. The farm fields stretch out ahead - like what looks like forever. The farm is much larger than I thought.

I'm Forest Gump
I am feeling very Forest-Gump-like, no humans in view, just green vegetation and the dusty road. Is this legal? I wonder - walking without official escort. The horizon looms straight ahead. I plod along, feeling smaller with each step. Over the hill more fields appear. I finally spot the hay wagon again, far off in the distance and still moving away, matchbox car size. 

Where'd Everyone Go?

I consider that my route may not lead to the strawberry field after all and that possibly I will never meet up with the children. This troubles me. I try to keep the shrinking wagon in view, hoping it doesn’t vanish again. I am feeling decidedly trespasser-like. I breathe some relief as I suddenly notice that the tractor has stopped. OK, if that is so, I must make a right turn somewhere to reach them. I look for a road, or path, but see none. What to do? Turn back? Continue straight – south? To Kentucky - so it seems. 


As the Crow Flies
I decide instead to route myself as the crow flies - through the vegetables patches. This is risky, but I forge on, trying to stay between the rows to avoid trampling plants - a sin punishable by jail I'm certain. It is hard going, very uneven ground, plus now I am a definite felon. I have no choice but to continue. I only hope that I reach the wagon before the return trip begins. How humiliating would that be – passing the wagon - me, senior hiker dressed like a Florida retiree? 

I plod ahead, eyes on the dirt below. I look up. It is still some distance - like miles - to the wagon though the good news is that people are emptying out – or off. Head down again – one foot in front of the other. I look up. Closer now. I can see the kids fanning out into the berry field. More plodding on. At last I arrive. I see that each child holds a pint cardboard box for their berries. I locate Eddie and help with the picking. We fill his box. I look up. No one seems ready to leave. 


Do We Pay for This?
I grab another box; tell Ed to fill it up. Picking continues in full swing. I hear a mother inquire, “Do we pay for these?”

I was wondering that too. Are two boxes permitted?

Answer, “It’s all built in to the trip.”

“Cool”

The strawberries look delicious. I eat more than a few. “Has to be legal,” I think.

Finally the hay wagon director – a college girl, farm employee – barks at us to finish our picking. Every adult quits immediately and starts walking toward the wagon. Enough already. 

Kids ignore her words; stay bent over the berry patch. Another shout to wrap it up. This time helping-moms echo the call and eventually the wagon loading begins. I am one of the first on. I pick out an empty hay bale.

Hay Rides - and My World Record Kiss

The ride back begins. 

May I say something? Hay rides are immensely over rated. 

For one thing there is never enough hay. Today there is no loose hay, only hay bales as seats. Better than nothing. But then I’m expecting nothing. This is not 1952. Nor is it a nocturnal hayride along the country roads of Orange County, NY. Further, I am not twelve and am not sitting next to Nancy Langlitz when, halfway into the trip I raised my arm and draped it over her shoulder. It was just as we passed Brady’s farm. I had vowed to friends that I would kiss Nancy on this ride and heard from same friends that she was OK with it. So we kissed, which was wonderful, but then it seems  - somehow something happened.

So we kissed
I don’t know who decided this; obviously it was either Nancy or myself. The thing was, neither of us knew much about kissing that was not related to a spin-the-bottle game. So, again, someone, Nancy or yours truly, decided that our kiss should never end. So we kissed, lips pressed together all the way down Brady Mountain (4 miles) into the village of Warwick, through town right up to the Village Hall entrance where the ride began and now would end  and where Nancy Langlitz and I ended our world record kiss.

“Was this how big people kiss,” I thought.

OK, where was I? Oh - hay rides – correct? Yes, 2011.

We, parents and field-trippers, made our way slowly back to the original picnic area amid considerable dust and zero shade. Had to be over100 degrees.On the trip home, I crank up the air conditioning. A mother hitches a ride with me. She had come out on the bus, without air conditioning. She tells me I saved her life.

In all – one fine day. 

 

Retirement duties - 2011

Retirement duties - 2011

 

A Pensioner Enjoying Life

I retired from a teaching career, now seven years, and have been gainfully employed since by my daughter. My title is personal assistant, which is a fancy word for a pick-up, delivery and babysitting service that revolves around her three – Emma (9), Eddie (7) and John (4.5).

 

Today I am savoring life. It is a little before ten AM. I have just pulled into a great parking space (always a joy) at Home Depot. I'm here to pick up some Spackle. The wallboard is peeling in my bedroom and having a small container of Spackle sitting on my dresser will go a long way toward relieving my anxiety about the wallboard. I’m not really planning on using the Spackle today. I’ll just set it on the dresser; maybe put a Spackle knife next to it. Then later - not sure when - I’ll do the Spackling.

The Cell Phone Rings

But for now I’m going to enjoy this bright fall morning. I lean back into the car seat and let the sun warm me. I pick up the newspaper, thinking that I could actually take an hour right here in the Home Depot parking lot, watch the people go in and out and read the paper plus drink some coffee which is right at my side, a full cup still warm in the holder. “I don’t need much to make me happy,” is the thought that occurs to me, and it pleases me.

Ooops – there goes my cell phone. It must be daughter Ashley calling to remind me about something. I fumble for the phone. We seniors do this. The vibration stops, ringer starts. I undo the seat belt, fling it at the door. There! I’m still fishing for the phone. It’s still ringing. These jean pockets are tight. I’ll never … OK got it.  

“Hello.” I say – thinking it’s probably too late.

“This is Mrs. DeFranco from Holy Family School.”

“Yes hi, I guess my daughter is ... anyway you got the grandfather. Did you want my daughter’s number?”

Mrs. DeFranco doesn’t want my daughter. She explains to me that Johnny (my grandson, age 4.5) has just announced that he has to go to the bathroom – poopy – and that he will not go unless papa (that’s me) is here to wipe him.”

“OK, but I’m out at Home Depot, now.” I say this in a tone that suggests that I am actually in Home Depot, pushing a cart of stacked two-by-fours, a pencil in my ear, making mental measurements for construction of a new dormer. 

Mrs DeFranco is undeterred. “We’re afraid he will go in his pants.”

“OK,” I say, “I’d say, take him to the bathroom and tell him that I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“OK, please hurry.”

I make the six miles in twelve minutes. I ring the security bell and am let in, no questions asked.

A harried looking administrator greets me in the hall. “He’s in there,” she says pointing to the door-less boy’s room.

I Already Did Poopy

“John,” I say.

“Papa?” he answers. He’s in a stall.

I tug on the door. It’s latched. “OK, John, unlock the door.”

“Papa, I’m on the toilet.”

“I know, get off and come unlock the door.”

“I can’t I already did poopy.”

OK, wasn’t expecting this. I make several more pleas, but John doesn’t relent. I step back and think. I gauge the space underneath the stall door.

I glance out into the hall. There is no one there. No one to whom I might explain what I am about to do. So I kneel down and place my hands stretched out on the floor ahead of me. From there I flatten out face down before proceeding to roll onto my back. I then stretch out, turn my head once more toward the hall - still no one. Pressing the heels of my hands against the floor for traction, I push down and away, inching my way backward, my body sliding on the tile floor. This is a Catholic grade school, not a turnpike restroom I think as my head passes under the door. How dirty can the floor be? After my ribs clear the door, I try to raise myself into a half sit-up position, and reach my hand upward, stretching for the latch. I have trouble with this. I strain a bit more. I roll up my eyes up and tilt my head backward, so that I glimpse the outline of Johnnie sitting on the toilet behind me. He is silent, offering no comment about my actions, but clearly seems to be watching with interest. Finally, the Gods are with me. I reach the latch, my legs still visible protruding beneath the door .

 

May I Help You?

“Do you need help?”  It is an adult female voice from the hall.

“My grandson locked himself in here ... I'm OK,” I say. I assume that the questioner sees my shoes and pant legs and perhaps wonders, “Is he trying to get out? In? Or what?” Regardless she obviously hears my sincere voice and thinks better about coming to my aid. I hope that she goes on her way, which she does.

With much effort, I manage to slide the latch and pry the door. I struggle to come upright with considerable effort, as might be expected for any seventy year old attempting to gracefully rise from back-on-the-floor-prone to upright within a toilet stall in a Catholic grade school.

Finally I stand and listen for voices in the hall. Nothing. Thank God, the Pope, and the archdiocese.

“OK, John, let’s get to it here, are you done?”

“Yes,” John says and I do the job I was called for.

I don’t go back to Home Depot. I move the laundry basket in front of the peeling wallboard. I vow to get the Spackle downtown at the local hardware store.

Construction Project

Construction Project

 

Sleepover Pending

Eddie asked to sleep over one night recently and as usual with the overnight came a petition to tackle a major building project. His idea was to build a tree house. I suggested pushing that back until Spring, or Summer – plus I said, “I don’t think my yard has any trees that would hold a good tree house.”

“No!” he said, indicating that he thought otherwise.

I grimaced affectionately. “Can’t be helped,” I said, as if offering a lesson on the ways of the world.

“OK,” he said, “then we’ll have to build a fort in the bunk bed room that we can sleep in.”

Sensing something I could actually do, I immediately gave my support.

Off to Home Depot

“We need to go to Home Depot and get wood,” he said.

I nodded.

We returned from Home Depot with thirty dollars of wood, four six foot 2 x 4’s and an equal number of four foot 1 x 1s. Ed put on his gloves and safety goggles and we got down to the business of securing the 1 x 1s to the midpoint of the six foot 2 x 4s with metal brackets – something like two boards creating a “T” shaped bracket. This turned out to be more difficult then I imagined. The heads of the screws kept twisting off when I tried to tighten them.

When did they start making screws that were so fragile? Or was I doing something wrong?

I decided to use nails which I felt was a cop-out of sorts, (real carpenters wouldn't) but as there were no real carpenters present I went ahead with it. Strangely, the same thing happened to the nail heads. They popped off when I pounded them all the way in. Huh???

Construction Phase Complete

Finally (2 hours later) I managed to create the two Ts with the 2x4s as the base. All that was left was to drape a sheet over the upright sticks and voila – we’d have a tent. Pup tent, I believe would be the correct terminology. Anyway, that didn’t work because the upside-down Ts, situated approximately four feet apart, just collapsed into each other from the weight of the sheet. Guess I missed that in physics class.

I scratched my head. I came up with the idea that I could slide one end of each 2x4 (the T base) under the legs of the bunk bed. Hoisting the metal bunk bed and kicking each 2x4 under a leg was a feat for which I expected little notoriety – but it was ingenious, if I must say. Regardless, you’ll have to take my word for it because there's no video. Ed, meanwhile, had left the work site some minutes ago in favor of the living room couch and the Noggin network.

Confident now, I fetched a larger sheet, and re-draped the tent roof. I stood back, surveyed the masterpiece.

Cool!    

I called Ed.

“Cool,” he agreed.

Honestly? It wasn’t that cool, not one of my better construction projects, but I slid a gym mat under the flimsy sheet roof and thought - yes, it could pass for cozy sleeping quarters.

I laid a second gym mat against the edge of the first and that was how we slept – L-shaped head to head.

When Ed went home the next day the “tent” was still up. I think I dismantled it about a week later. The parts have been dismantled as well. They’re in the cellar. I notice them when I go down to do laundry. Honestly the tent project barely rises to the level of low-grade amateur but in my book it’s a marker of one good night’s sleep and one of those bits of love that I share with my grandson.

Life at its best.

Life's Gifts, Early Spring 2011

Life's Gifts, Early Spring 2011

 

Daughter Ash called at 7 AM. The kids were sick, or one anyway. Emma, was coughing in the night. The others were claiming copy-cat-syndrome ailments and mom, in a weak moment,  offered a school reprieve for all, which meant that she had to call her personal assistant – me.

              “Is there any way you could come over?” was the way she put it. 

              

              I immediately went into accommodation mode, “Yeah, no problem,” I said, my voice hoarse from sleep.

                Tom- kids' dad - was going in to the office for an hour, Ash told me, then he would come back home and take over for the rest of the day.

Papa, Can We Play Football

I was there from 7:30 to 9:30. It was an easy shift. I sat in the living room, in an easy chair by the front window, reading my book in the sun while Ed and John watched TV. Emma was upstairs in her room with the laptop. Around 8:30 Johnnie approached me, “Papa, can we play football?”

“Now?” I said

“Yes.”

“Maybe this afternoon,” I said, “It’s freezing out now.” Last night’s low was near 20 degrees.

Eddie piped in from the TV room, “Not now Johnnie, we can play at 11 o’clock.”

“Two o’clock, Ed,” I corrected, “It’ll be warmer.”

Johnnie retreated to the TV room. He was back in a couple of minutes with a question. “Papa what is bigger, 11 o’clock or 2 o’clock?” I looked him. His patient eyes looked back at me, waiting for my answer. I felt a tug at my heart. I tried to explain time to Johnnie. 

“Time, in the morning, goes 8,9,10,11,12 then starts again, after 12, or noon, with 1, 2, 3 etc., so 2 o'clock comes after 11 o'clock every day. Get it?" I said. or something along those lines. He seemed to lose interest in this, looking away and flinging his arms through the air. I continued with further explanation ( AM, PM etc.) but he went back to the TV room.  

Tom arrived back home. I started to gather my things. John walked back into my room holding a small rubber dinosaur.  He looked at me as if to say, “I really wanted to play football now.”

Can I Give You a Hug and Kiss

“John,” I said, “Can I give you a hug and a kiss?”  He ran to me and wrapped his arms around me and lingered, leaning against my ribs. What is it that I felt? Is it Dopamine or Endorphins that the body releases as a signal that something is right or true? Whatever – the chemical message traveled through me as I squeezed my grandson.

With my book in hand and laptop case slung over my shoulder I walked in to say goodbye to Eddie who was wrapped in a down comforter on the couch. I rubbed his back, told him I loved him, that he was great at hockey practice last night because he was such a hustler, racing full speed every time they changed to a new drill. Ed leaned into the couch cushion, face down. He made a little grunt-like sound.  “Can I give you a hug and kiss?” I said and pressed my nose against his back. “Love you, Ed,” I said.

Once again, the chemicals stirred. 

 
A Nice Thing to Say

“You should go kiss Emma too,” Eddie said, not looking up. I told him that was such a nice thing to say. “Do you know that?” I said. 

 

He didn’t say anything.

I went upstairs to Emma’s room. I put my hands on her shoulders and said, “Eddie says I should hug you goodbye too. “  She leaned her head to my arms and I kissed her hair. “Love you baby,” I said. She made a sound of acknowledgment and I bid her goodbye walked down the stairs. “Goodbye beautiful boys,” I said to John and Ed.     

As I left, all I could think was how lucky I was and inside my head, there was a vague notion about life - and the many gifts that one has. 

Tuesday in the Park with John (Plus Val and Francis)

Tuesday in the Park with John (Val & Francis also)

We are on our way to the park, five-year-olds, John, Val, and Francis, along with 71-year-old child care person (me). During the trip a discussion ensues between John and Val about who had the biggest injury last week.

                  The Wind Blows the Blood

Val cut his toe on the trampoline. John fell from his bike on the driveway, wearing shorts. Both claim excessive bleeding. John says that he had a lot of blood. Val says blood from his toe cut was so much that it was going up his whole leg.

John says, “It can’t do that.”

Val says it can.

“How can it?” John disputes.

 “The wind blew it up,” Val says.

John calls on me, “Papa, Can it? Can wind blow blood up a leg?”

I feel compelled to side with my grandson but with a caveat for Val, “Only if it was a very strong wind and Val was lying down.”

“Were You?” John asks.

No answer.

                It's Someone's Mother, I Hope 

We arrive at the park. There’s a festive crowd; it’s lunchtime and more than one picnic is in progress.

I spot a person my age – grandma. “On duty today?” I inquire. It’s a conversation starter.

“Oh yes,” she says. “Monty, Valerie, no more hiding from me.” She turns to me. “It’s easy to lose them here.”

I agree. “Siblings?” I ask.

“They’re cousins.”

 Her cell phone rings. “Oh, someone’s calling, one of the mothers, I hope,” she says which indicates that this grandma wants to be off-duty and seems to feel it’s beyond her quitting time actually.

 She puts the phone to her ear. “Hi where are you?” she says. Another indication that she’s done – or should be. She hangs up. “OK,” she says, “We’re going.”

 “Have a good one,” is all I say, though I would have liked to have talked more with this person. Something about her manner, the accepted exasperation with a hint of humor that drew me to her. But I will never see her again. A missed opportunity to commiserate.

 Anyway, what time is it? OK it’s 12:15.

                         Reserved Seats Only

Seats are at a premium here, at least, that is, space that is not “reserved” with strategically placed water bottles, hats, or opened books turned over. There are but three aluminum picnic tables, with seating benches on each side.  At one, lunch is in full swing. Mothers fuss with myriad food containers, nudging them here and there across the table top. Enough Mylar balloons for a lift-off are anchored to the legs of another table. I suspect a birthday party.

The third table is relatively vacant so I saunter toward it. Of the two seat benches one is less occupied, empty but for a single half filled water bottle perched in the middle. Not enough, I reason, to reserve the entire bench. I sit down at the near end. 

                          It’s the Pregnancy

A mom approaches, seemingly in pain, her hand on the back of her hip. Sciatica she announces with a groan as she slides onto the opposite end of the bench. She’s obviously hobbled. I glance in her direction. There is a collective sympathetic “Oh,” from nearby moms.

I consider joining the discussion. I know a thing or two about sciatica – back pain etc. I’m 71 – expert on this. I roll over some thoughts – what to say? Another mother offers, “It’s the pregnancy – for sure.”

This brings a chorus of agreement. Pregnancy is the verdict. I exclude myself from the discussion - opt out, no comment.

                 Tip: Don’t Slice the Strawberries

I try to spot the kids. Where’d they go? Oh, there they are. OK, I lower my head, rest my eyes. This is when I notice on the ground, right at my feet, upwards to fifty nicely sliced strawberries, covered with dirt.  It makes me chuckle. Am I laughing at another’s misfortune? I suppose I am.

I try to imagine the scenario.  

Mom – or grand-mom - is up before everyone, in the kitchen dutifully slicing each berry into a shaved quarter.

She is humming softly. A thought enters - Why am I slicing every single berry? Don’t ask- she tells herself - she just wants to, or maybe that they are more likely to be eaten. She, dismisses the thought, continues slicing. Finally, she finishes, packs them, neatly, into a Tupperware container. Kids will like these, she thinks.

 And now this. The strawberries are covered in dirt.

 Seriously I would have picked them up - scooped them right back into the Tupperware, to take home later and wash them. Yes, yes, … don't tell me. I know. Trying to feed one of the children the dropped strawberries, even if re-washed, would go something like this:

 “Euew!! I’m not eating them.” This would be the oldest of her three.

  “You know what? Shut up!” That would be the sweet mother.

 I would love to hear that. The sweeter, the gentler, the more darling the mother the more I like it. It doesn’t sound at all mean, not at all, coming from her – sounds loving even. Why does it make me feel good?

 So how did they get on the ground? I’m betting on her own little Johnny, age 4, wanting one strawberry, yanks at the Tupperware lid as he holds the container against his chest. Mom/Grand-mom does not notice this. She is in the middle of gentle laughter with her contemporaries, catching up on news. Anyway that’s my guess.

 But of course, I don't know if any of this happened, really. I know only that the dirt at my feet is littered with strawberries and that they had been assiduously sliced and intended for someone to eat, which I also know also, did not happen …and never will happen.