Supermarket.

It was a pretty standard Saturday afternoon. The sun was out and the wind was light. Traffic on Marine View Drive was heavier that I would have guessed. Though, I suppose on a nice weekend day people have places to go and the main street is the way to get there. My daughter and I were walking to the market. As we strolled through town, I took note of the various shops and restaurants and remembered when they were different shops and restaurants. A lot has changed since my days walking with my dad down this same street, but it always feels the same to me. This is my hometown and the footprints of my life are here.


As we neared the store entrance, I saw that my best friend’s wife and kids were selling Girl Scout cookies at the front door. My daughter is in the same troop, but fortunately my wife was able to pawn a good number of boxes off on her chiropractic patients, so I did not have to sit in front of the store bothering shoppers. We stopped and visited for a few minutes.

As we were chatting, out the automatic door came Al, another friend of mine. We exchanged small talk. Him reminding me of my promised charitable contribution he had not yet received. I told him I was good for it and he grinned and patted me on the shoulder and went to have dinner with his wife.

While still standing there, another guy, Andrew, his kid in my son’s class, bought some cookies and said we were due for another baseball game. A couple of years previously, we went to a Mariner’s game for his son’s birthday. I said, “You bet.” And he went about his business.

Inside the store, while looking at meat, my old friend, Craig, tapped me on the shoulder with a smile. He called me bad name as old friends will and asked if I was still burping pickled eggs. On a bet, in a different lifetime, I once drank a pint of pickled egg juice from the dusty egg jar behind the counter in the Dugout, our local bar, for twenty-eight dollars. Craig paid.

In the dairy aisle, I ran into, Mike, an old neighborhood kid. He was a few years older than me and I distinctly remember him threatening to stuff my face through a cyclone fence thirty-some years ago. He says he didn’t, but I remember what I remember and we disagree and laugh whenever I see him.

At the checkout stand, I said hello to Sandy, a checker I have known since she worked at Johnny’s, our old market, and I was a kid hanging on my dad’s hip asking for candy. I bought our dinner and we left.

As we were walking home, I began to think about the people we encountered. All have shared a piece of my life. It struck me as a rare and beautiful thing to know so many good people. I felt very good about the life I have chosen and where I have chosen to live it. Being a true local is a gift that only time can buy. A broad variety of folks have crossed my path through the years, the full spectrum and I do mean the FULL spectrum. These are the characters in the epic motion picture that is my life. We are all characters in each other’s life’s movies. We are all connected and necessary and we are all locals.

Holding my daughter’s hand as we walked through her hometown, I was happy that she would know some of the same feelings I have and one day walk around town, reminiscing fondly on a good life with deep connections to the ground under her feet. I just hope she doesn’t get the strange tickle in her belly and taste the foul, bitter burp remnants from a bad bet made many years earlier. Or maybe, I kind of hope she does.