Accio, mask

Today, it is the fourth anniversary of our flight from Hades.  Three time zones away, elder daughter, having attended a thrice-postponed wedding, is leaving Ottawa herself, returning to her new life in London.

As is my practice, when I find myself masked, distanced, and at the head of the line at the coffee shop, I turn to ask the person behind me if I might slip in, drop my packsack on a table, and resume my place.

This morning, it's a rather dapper gentleman.

"Do you happen to have a mask?" he inquires.  "I seem to have dropped mine somewhere on the way here; I had it when I left home..."

"I keep a spare in my packsack," I say.  "Give me a moment."

I plop my packsack on the table, and paw through one of the side pockets, before returning to the door, with the mask dangling by its long strings. It's a double tie design, purchased early in the pandemic.

"Make sure Harry Potter is right-side-up," I advise with an apologetic air.  He fastens it cheerfully over his neat moustache.  It looks a bit incongruous with his impeccable navy raincoat.

"I like your mask!" I hear one of the baristas greet him.  Fortunately, she has the disposable kind on hand, and I think he and I are equally relieved when I reclaim Harry Potter.

After all, I need him for Hallowe'en.

You have to break a few eggs

I should have accepted the offer.

My local grocery store is quite busy these mornings with white-haired people buying groceries, mostly fruit and vegetables.

One of them is a women clad in a grey tracksuit. She sees that I have a small block of Havarti in my hand and offers to let me go ahead. I decline; she doesn't have that many groceries.

What she does have is a single paper bag. The cashier is trying to tell her that it's not quite big enough for the selection of fruits and vegetables, plus three cartons of eggs. She insists she'll be all right, turning to tell me that the reason we're in this panic is our weakened immune systems from over-medicating ourselves.

Now she has an over-packed paper bag, a pack-sack in which she's stuffed a few items with what was already in there, her cane, and three (3) dozen eggs. She's planning to carry them down to her motorscooter, waiting out on the sidewalk, by the middle of the exit-ramp with her two dogs. The cashier has vanished.

Oh gawd, I think. I have to help her.

I get the eggs in a secure grip, but she's trying to pick up the paper bag and her packsack, while feeling for her cane, so I balance the eggs against my body and pull the bag into the crook of my arm.

You can guess what happens next.

Nothin' to do but make a quick exit, around a couple of fellow customers, who are doing their best to corral twelve yolks with the remains of the carton.

I make my way down the ramp, and let her fuss over packing her fruits, veggies, and two cartons of eggs. I'm apologizing profusely, but she says she'll simply go back in and get another carton.

"I won't have to pay for them," she says.

I tell her I'll wait with her groceries and her dogs. She smiles radiantly at me.

"You're so kind," she beams.

She emerges triumphantly minutes later. "They just waved me out. Have I told you why we're in this panic?"

I wait while she packs the last of her 36 eggs, and tells me all about depleted immune systems. I figure I owe her that.