Goodly Folk,

    When our granddaughter, Zoe, realized her Utah grandmother was getting ready to fly home after a Christmas visit, she exclaimed, “But, Grandma Stahle, I just found you!”

    Grandma Stahle cried.

    When our grandson, Conner, wants you to turn his “Transformer” toy into a robot he bends backwards at the waist and flings his arms out as if he’s being crucified.

    People look at him and wonder, “What’s wrong with him?”

    Zoe has been using the English language in a tender, insightful way pretty much since her lips could form sounds. Conner has invented a form of sign language that requires a United Nations interpreter and a guide book.  That’s boys and girls for you.

    I try to reassure Zoe and Conner’s mom that everything is as it should be—Zoe is good with words, and Conner is good with . . . sticks.

    Trying to reassure her further, I tell her about her fifty-year old father (a boy) whose main methods of communication sometimes makes me wonder if he’s having mini-strokes, or possibly drunk. For example, during a recent conversation I believe that he may have exhibited nine of the ten symptoms of insanity.

    Sighing, I said, “Gosh, I feel like kind of a bum sometimes. You know, I could get a little part time job while I’m finishing up school.”

    He said, “Go be . . .”  He drifted off into silence. His pupils dilated.

    “What were you going to say? Go be what? You faded out there, buddy.” I poked him.

    “ . . . a Wal-Mart greeter.”

    “Hey, don’t think I couldn’t, mister. I could do as good a job as a lot of those folks. I like people. I’m chatty. I’d make sure nobody got one of those shopping carts with the wacky wheels of death. What do you think about that?”

    Silence. I poked him again.

    Jumping, he said, “Yeah, you could be a smoking Indian totem pole.”

    “What? A smoking Indian what? What are you trying to say?” I asked.

    He looked as stumped as I felt, and then my mind reading, extra-sensory perception kicked in.

    “Are you trying to say a cigar store Indian?”

    He laughed and said, “Oh, right, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

    “Whaaaat? What does a cigar store Indian, or as you put it, a smoking Indian totem pole have to do with being a Wal-Mart greeter?”

    At this point, my husband bent backwards at the waist and flung his arms out as if he were being crucified.

    That’s boys and girls for you. Some of us are good with words and some of us are good with . . . sticks.

Love and expressions of love,

Linda (Welcome to Wal-Mart) Zern


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