All Those Stories

I fell asleep last night wondering where my grandmother purchased her groceries.  I knew her neighborhood; G'ma grew up in the house I visited as a grandchild. I remember taking the bus with my grandparents, riding the El with them, walking the neighborhood, but never buying toilet paper or oatmeal or tea bags.  I don't remember seeing a purveyor of those goods.

 At the delicatessen, around the corner on Linden Boulevard, the bell rang startlingly loud when you opened the door.  That didn't distract us from the pickle barrel and the giant wedges of french fries, the most delicious taste ever.  Brother and I, feeling quite adult, walked down 93rd Street all by ourselves.  We ordered at the counter and carried our bounty home, oil staining the small brown paper bags holding the fries.  Pride and grease were a delectable combination. 

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The bakery a few doors down tempted me, too. 

Not with the breads and the rolls I'd usually covet, but with the tray of cherry topped, whipped cream covered, yellow cake and strawberry filled paper wrapped Charlotte Rousse.

I can still smell the combination of cold and sweet on the plastic spoon.  I ate while we walked back to Bubba and Zayde's six-flat; there was no way I could wait until we got to their front porch.

John's Bargain Store had wooden floors and long open tables with goodies priced just for Bubba and me.  We tried to get the most for our dollar, sometimes two dollars, always surprised with our treasures, enjoying the experience as much as the goods themselves.  

I see FlapJilly's delight as we drive into the Target parking lot.  She's happy to wander the aisles, feeling the so soft blankets and choosing her very own Wonder Woman , cleverly resting on the shelf just at her own eye level.  I've become my grandmother, even if I don't know where she bought her groceries.