Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Canning Requires Deep Thought

   Exiting the grocery store, my mind was very preoccupied with plans for the afternoon's applesauce & stewed tomato canning activities and sorting out priorities.  I wheeled my grocery cart to the parking lot, opened the truck door, threw my purse across to the passenger's seat, opened the back door, shoved some stuff that was on the back seat over to make room for my groceries... and it was only as I began to place my groceries on the seat... (you know where this is going, don't you)... the creeping realization came to its full fruition:  It was not my truck!
   Oh, it gets better.  As I put my stuff back into the cart and tried to start breathing again, a guy walked up to me.  I began to apologize profusely and pointed out to him the suddenly-larger-than-life presence of my very similar truck in the next aisle over.  He finally interrupted me and, sort of sheepishly, broke the news that it wasn't his truck, either.  He just wanted to share with me the series of unfortunate events in his life and ask for gas money, which I had to explain that I would not give to him, but that I would give him some food if he needed some, to which he explained how he didn't do drugs or anything, but he just needed some gas money................
   Meanwhile, a sweet little elderly lady had approached us and waited patiently until I acknowledged her presence.  After exchanging lengthy blank stares, I burst into my profuse apologies once again, only now it was to the right person.  She was very gracious and understanding (praise God).
   Thinking this most awkward of misadventures (I do have quite a list, actually) was complete, I made it back to my truck, only to discover that my purse was still on the passenger seat of the impostor truck.  Having not one stitch of pride left to damage, I turned once again to that fateful parking spot still occupied by the poor-innocent-by-stander-vehicle where the nice lady's husband now stood beside the nice lady, both listening to the young man who, in preparation for asking them for money, first felt the need to give them his perspective on the events that had occurred, feeling quite smug, I'm sure, at being a key witness.
   The nice lady's husband eyed me suspiciously, and for good reason I must add.  I produced for him a less emotional, more factual version of my near-criminal activity and waited while he opened the truck doors to inspect its contents for status quo.  I asked if he wouldn't mind if I retrieved my purse from his front seat.  I didn't wait for his answer.  I opened the driver's door after he had closed it, reached across the console, grabbed my purse, closed the door, held up my purse for all to see, thanked them for their kindness, tossed one final plea for forgiveness, and very slowly hightailed it for my truck.
   I sure hope they're just passing through.

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