We knew we’d made a mistake when we drove into the parking lot of the grocery store. The place was packed with cars bearing license plates from all over the country. A new semester had started at the university, and the students were stocking up.
DH and I elbowed our way through the energetic crowd, dragged a cart away from a little old lady (okay just kidding) and went off to find our supplies. We made it easily through produce. Students don’t buy fruits and vegetables.
But we got stuck behind a mom who’d parked her cart full of kids and goods in front of the bacon. She was reading the label on every brand. Who cares what’s in bacon? It tastes great and is guaranteed to kill. What else is there to know? We HAD to have bacon so I told DH I’d go for the other important item on the list and meet up later.
I needed a can of Oregon Blackberries.
Guests were coming for dinner and I was making a pie,
an apple blackberry pie, for dessert.
They keep those cans on the very top shelf. The shelf is at least six feet off the floor. The blackberries were on sale, so of course from my full height of five foot two (on a good day) I could only see one can. Stretching vertically has been a challenge for me for the past six weeks, but I managed to reach that one can. But I needed two.
No clerk was in sight, and I doubted climbing the shelves to the top to get a better view of the ledge was a good idea. Then I saw a wad of young men standing in the checkout line. One guy must have been six-five with arms like a spider monkey. I stepped over and asked him to come with me. I showed him my can (not THAT ONE! pervert) and politely asked him to see if there was another like it on the shelf. He grinned, glanced and easily gathered the last remaining can and handed it down. I thanked him and he returned to his friends.
I wish I would have dared to invite him over for pie.
But he would have wanted to bring all his friends
and there were only two cans of blackberries.