Today

I went to Winco. It's on Front Street. Front is a four-lane one-way street, with the far left lane being the left turn lane, so you could turn left onto Broadway. But not today. Today some--and I say this knowing full well that people think I'm old--some old guy was driving in that lane towards me, towards all of the rest of us. Which means he was going the wrong way. Most of us were in the other three lanes. Thank goodness.

I motioned and yelled. Didn't help. He just kept right on going.

There were driveways he could turn into. I didn't see him do that, and I don't know if he ever did. I don't know what happened because soon everything was visible only in my rear view mirror. Then it was over.

*     *     *

Two other old guys captured my attention a little later. Both were on the street corners holding signs, asking for help/money.

The first looked like he needed help all right. But I could not read his sign. Two reasons, 1. It was two paragraphs written in not very dark ink, explaining his need, but I could not read it. (I said that.) Too faint and too long; 2. I couldn't stop.

He looked awful.

The second guy was sitting at the place where I had to drive out of the Winco parking lot. He was trying to light a cigarette. I had to stop there to check for traffic before entering the traffic. I didn't read his sign when he finally stood and held it up. I didn't give him anything. Didn't ask him how he was buying cigarettes. Didn't tell him he should not smoke.

*     *     *

My visiting teachers came today. They haven't visited in a few months. One has been ill for a while. I watched as they got out of the car and saw one of them open the trunk and get something.

Yeah, I figured they would bring something to me. I said to myself out loud, "Oh please, do not bring me something sweet to eat."

Rena, the wonderful little woman from Germany, brought homemade huckleberry coffee cake. It's sweet all right, but it's now evening and I have eaten only 1/3 of it. Yes, it's also good.

Bobbi, the one who has been ill and is highly sensitive to scent and becomes ill in its presence, brought me some cheese. Goat gouda, to be precise, because she now has goats and knows that I had goats. I used to make cheese with our goats' milk. But it wasn't gouda; I don't remember if it was even good. But the ice cream was.

I will now go out and have another bite of coffee cake and cheese.