Posts Tagged ‘ groceries ’

Justice Prevails

Wednesday, April 17th, 2013

Ramona, California-The Town Where Justice Lives

“Justice wants to walk you to your car,” the woman says.

Our small health food store is one of my favorite places in town. It’s owned by a couple with 5 children.

I’m at the counter checking out my little bag of groceries and when I hear the woman’s voice, I glance behind me. And look down. There is a small boy with brown hair looking up at me. His mother, one of the owners, is standing behind him.

“OoooK…” I say to his mom. “That’s nice of him. Sure, he can walk me to my car.”

The checker slides my Trader Joe’s bag to me.

I take it and say to Justice, “Let’s go?”

He reaches out a spindly arm and says, “Give me your bag.”

Justice appears to be a serious, no nonsense kind of guy.

As I hand the bag over I’m glad I’ve shopped light today.

Justice has my groceries and struggles to push open the heavy glass door for me. I give it a shove from behind him.

We ease down the crumbly concrete steps of the old building and into the tiny alley. I say,

“Always look for cars when you do this. Look both ways now. Left and right.”

I want to take his hand to guide him but it doesn’t seem right when he’s walking me to the car and carrying my bag.

We quickly get to my car and I open the back door, after Justice has gamely tried to do it.

He puts the bag on the seat.

I shut the door.

“Thanks so much Justice, you were so helpful. I really appreciate your help. Be careful crossing the alley, now. Look both ways.”

I turn away and open my car door. I am half way into the seat when I hear his voice behind me.

“I take tips.”

“You do?!” I almost shout.

Bounding out of the car I stand and look down at Justice. He’s looking up at me, holding his ground.

“You take tips?”

I’m thinking, ‘How much money do you give a little kid?’

“How old are you?” I ask.

“I’m six.”

I’m thinking of my 6 year old grandson. He doesn’t know a dime from a doughnut hole. A quarter and a dollar and a hundred dollar bill are all the same to him.

I’m stalling for time to think.

“What do you need the money for?”

“Things. I need money for things. Like going to Disney Land.”

Opening my coin purse I think, ‘A quarter or a dollar?’ I decide on a quarter and put it in Justice’s out stretched hand.

He takes it and puts it in his jean’s front pocket.

He looks up at me.

“I’m Justice,” he says. “I fight for justice for the good guys against the bad guys.”

Briefly, I think, ‘Am I a good guy? Is a quarter enough to qualify?’

Justice is a serious kid. I’d like to be on the good side.

He turns to leave and I say, “Next time I’m in, I’ll ask for you. Look both ways, now. Watch for cars.”

As he carefully makes his way back to the steps and into the store I start laughing.

‘I take tips.’

I have just met a very Young Entrepreneur and perhaps a soon to be Famous Prosecutor and a Fighter for Social Justice.

I won’t forget Justice, that’s for sure. He’s a scrappy little fellow that will be grown up one day. And in those future days I may need  to have him in my corner of any ring I might find myself in.

So, look around folks. Are there any kids you know that you might want to mentor or cultivate with particular attention and kindness? After all, little kids become big kids and they eventually run the world.

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Venus Has The ‘Roofies’

Monday, March 9th, 2009

When I disappear from the blog for awhile, you know something is going on, don’t you.

Well, yes it is. I have ‘The Roofies.’

Let me explain. When I was a kid I had chicken pox.  When this happens, later in life, the virus known as herpes zoster, can flare up and cause an exceedingly painful condition called shingles. That’s what I have. Shingles.

It’s been agonizing, with my skin burning like it’s on fire, a deep aching pain in my upper right back and right arm and part of my chest and my mind in figurative shreds. I have sat and cried with the pain. I am slowly getting better but at the height of it, I was doing odd things.

I try and tell people what is wrong with me and I say things like, “I have Syphilis. No, no,wait,  I mean I have shingles!”

Or, I say, “I have Sphincter. No wait, that’s not right!”

Or, I whine,  “I have The Spindles!”

People are amazed and transfixed by my revelations.

I keep thinking, ‘What is the matter with my mind?’ My brother in law, Dr. Ron, says I can’t remember the word because I am in deep denial. Maybe so. I think maybe it is the pain and maybe the anti-viral drug that has loosened up all my mental strings.

Finally, I think, ‘I have to remember the right word for this. I must, I must.’

I get a bright idea. I think of the shingles on a roof! Clever, don’t you think? I say over and over to myself, ‘Think of roof, roof, roof.’

Now I find myself announcing, “I have The Roofies!”

After about a week and a half I drag myself to the grocery store. I grab a cart and meander slowly up and down the isles collecting things.  30 minutes later, an older lady grabs my basket, shakes it then leans into and starts digging through my groceries. I am a bit amazed.

The woman says, “Someone stole my basket! I’ve looked in every basket in this damn store and YOU are the one who stole my basket!”

My head bobbles on the stalk of my neck as I lean forward and look into the basket. Umm. I do see a few things that I didn’t put there. Oh my gosh. It’s not my basket.

The woman is trying to be pleasant but she is filled with righteous anger and yellow pissiness. I figure she has probably been searching stranger’s baskets for at least 20 minutes.

I say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

I almost say, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me, I have syphilis.” I bet ya’ she would have run off if I had said that and left me with the basket!

But, I don’t say it and the woman makes me pull all my groceries out of the cart and I have to pile them high up in my arms where they slip and slide. There is a mighty weight of them weighing on my painful arm.

I sneak off to search for my basket and indeed, I too must traverse almost every isle before I find it. It sits alone looking embarrassed for me. Thank goodness no one has run off with it.

I belong at home until this pimpled, burning weirdness passes and I can than go out in public where I won’t embarrass myself by stealing things or telling people I have syphilis.

(Please, my friends, I beg you, don’t tell me any horrid shingles stories. People feel it’s their duty to tell these to me and it makes me crazy. Never tell a sick person bad news! My sister in law tells me that people actually say things to her and my brother Art who has had the acute leukemia, things like ‘Oh, my aunt had that and she died!’ ………..Remember it’s a far better and happier job to uplift people than to slam them down. Always scatter Good Wishes wherever you go.)

Thanks for listening to my ‘woeful’, but passing, tale!!



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