She's a tiny traffic terror at the local grocery
As a teen-age box boy at Meier and Frank's department store in Portland, my daily duty was to waggle a wheeled cart through the first floor, artfully dodging shoppers while I gathered mail order packages from various stations, then hustled them downstairs for mailing.
I got pretty good at it. Sometimes I snagged silk stockings on the legs of angry lady shoppers. But I was good enough to avoid lawsuits and went on to snag a less hazardous position as the in-store mail boy. I lugged a huge leather bag up and down stairs to 12 floors of department bosses.
Today, grocery stores provide fleets of wheeled baskets for us. I use them whenever I do the shopping.
But when I shop with Elsbeth, her German upbringing takes over. She prefers to drive one of those electric carts with a basket in front the size of a Volkswagen's trunk. She tosses her purse in the basket and launches herself.
I "puppy" along behind dutifully as she points out a cereal box on the top shelf, or box of broccoli in a freezer case.
