Basketiquette

Confession is good for the soul, so here we go.

I am guilty of not paying it forward. I may have even paid it backward.

Allow me to elaborate.

TG and I swung by a discount generic food chain store on the way home from church on Sunday afternoon.

We do not shop at this market more than once or twice a year, but I needed frozen berries and Audrey had told me they had them for an excellent price.

And since I'm always in the mood to shop, I was open to other possibilities as well.

At this particular store, the shopping carts are lined up outside, locked together.

You need a quarter to rent a rolling basket. 

I had my quarter in my hand and was attempting to figure out where to put it and unlock a unit from the line, when I heard a kind voice.

Here, ma'am. Here's a basket all ready for you, the voice said.

I turned to see a smiling young man proffering his shopping basket in my direction.

Oh, thank you! I said, and smiled back. As I took the cart and steered it into the store, I plopped my purse into the child seat part, and slipped the quarter I'd saved down inside.

TG, who had dropped me off and was parking the car, did not witness the transaction.

Not another thought was given to the basket or the quarter saved, as I was busy selecting items to buy.

We ended up with animal crackers, caramel nut covfefe cake (MAGA), milk, thick-sliced hickory smoked gourmet bacon, dry breakfast cereal for the grandchildren (who are coming for a visit next week), and several other things, in addition to the frozen berries we'd gone in there to get.

Having paid for our purchases and secured them in the trunk of our car, TG took the basket back up to the store to replace it into the outdoor locked line of baskets just like it.

(At that point, I believe you get your quarter back.)

We were parked in such a way that I could see him as he did this.

But when he approached the baskets, a lady walked up -- much as I had done twenty minutes earlier -- and began to place a quarter into the slot.

TG gallantly offered her our paid-for basket, to save her the trouble.

She gratefully (as far as I could tell) took it. And that's when it happened.

The lady extended her arm toward TG and even from a distance, I could tell her fingers held a quarter.

TG pocketed the two bits and strode back to the car.

Oh no.

I was flushed with shame. I was supposed to give the smiling young man who offered me his basket, a quarter! The one that was right there in my hand! And like an ungrateful Greedy Gus, I'd put it into my purse instead!

So now I feel like an idiot. I kept our quarter and we made another quarter! A hundred-percent return on money we didn't even spend! And we'd saved at least two dollars on frozen raspberries too, compared to the market where you don't have to pay for a shoppting basket, and they put your items into bags!

How I wish that smiling young man would appear before me so that I could fish that quarter out of my purse and hand it to him, with a sincere apology for my blunder.

But I doubt I'd even recognize him so if he's hanging around the basket line at that store, waiting for me, he should go on home.

Tell you what. Next time I go to that store, I'll pay a quarter for a basket.

Then, when I wheel it back up to the entrance after unloading my groceries into the trunk, I'll give it to someone who's poised to put a quarter into the slot.

And when they offer me that quarter? I won't take it.

Please tell me that my sacrifice will atone for my deep-discount-store ignorance.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday

Take the Dagnycure

Dagny was here to swim yesterday, the weather being perfect for summer activities.

Audrey and Brittany each joined us in the pool for a delightful hour.

Afterwards, Dagny had some lunch and, in a break from playing indoors, told me she wanted her nails painted.

I believe what sparked her interest in having a manicure was seeing me removing my own fingernail polish with fluffy cotton balls soaked in pure acetone.

Naturally I acquiesced to her request and soon I was applying red lacquer to the tiny nails of her splayed fingers.

She's on track to become a fully-fledged glamour girl in three, two one.

As it should be.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Friday

First hummer of the summer

The hummingbirds have been slow to visit my matching front-porch and back-deck feeders this year.

I watched and waited. Finally, at least two weeks since I'd first filled the feeders, a tiny baby hummer appeared in the kitchen window and sipped at the nectar.

He was small even for the smallest of bird breeds. I'd be surprised if he weighed half an ounce.

After him, there was what seemed to me a long dry spell.

Yesterday, I sat for hours on the front porch. I hadn't meant to stay so long -- it was an uncomfortably muggy day -- but when I'd been there reading for a while, I heard the familiar buzz-whirr of tiny wings.

It was the fellow you see above -- if a hummingbird could ever be called ordinary, this one would be, because it has fewer of the jewel-colored feathers than one normally likes to see.

I believe the bird to be a female ruby-throat because the females of that species have next to no color. Certainly as you can see, no ruby-colored throat.

But she is no less precious for not being a flying gem in the strictest sense.

At any rate I went and fetched my camera, brought it outside, and waited.

I had no choice but to wait, not just for the hummingbird, but for my camera's lens to adjust from being in a cool house to coming out into the hot, humid afternoon.

You have to be patient until condensation stops forming on the lens, then wipe it with a soft cloth.

She didn't come back. I put the camera down and picked up my book. Enough time elapsed for me to read Joan Didion's short essay 7000 Romaine, Los Angeles 38.

Thus my nose was in the book when I next heard the whir of wings. I looked up slowly and soundlessly, since any quick movement or sound will startle the hummers.

I expected to see the female ruby throat again and was mad at myself for having put the camera down.

But it wasn't the lady. This time, it was the gentleman. Glossy black, with a throat so red it took my breath away. I'd never before been so close to one so vivid.

He hovered, indulging in a sip or two, but mostly turning himself so that his blood-red neck feathers blazed and glowed.

Since I was sitting three feet from him, it was no use reaching for my camera. He would have been gone in less than a blink.

He was exquisite. I was spellbound and became obsessed with getting his picture.

All afternoon I waited, holding the heavy camera near my eye, through TG coming home from playing golf, through an hour-plus summer rain, through cicadas changing their tune from their croaky daytime song to the shriller one they sing in the early evening, until time to go inside and make supper.

He never came back. But she did -- again and again, to drink her fill -- and here she is for your amazement and enjoyment.

Now I'm on a mission to get her man. Fairly obsessed.

Just wait and see. That's what I'll be doing.

And that is all for the present.

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Happy Tuesday

Needless to say

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Happy Monday

Here's your sign

Ah, no. No, you didn't.

And you haven't conquered the fine art of spelling, either.

I despair at times, for my beloved English language.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Monday