Roosevelt called
it “a day of infamy” that will live in history. And yet today I saw relatively
few mentions of Pearl Harbor Day, some seventy-seven years ago. I was too young
to remember, but I was told the story more than once. I was playing on the
kitchen floor while my mom cooked dinner, and my dad came home, stuck his head
in the kitchen door, and announced solemnly, “The Japanese have bombed Pearl
Harbor. We are at war.” For a veteran of WWI, as he was, the news was
devastating. While others slowly grasped the consequences of war, those who’d
been in the trenches in France and England knew immediately the horror that
would follow. And yet, WWII would be a different war, with more efficient ways
of killing men. Each of the two world wars were horrific in their own ways. We
must never forget.
Rainy dull day
today and chilly. I was glad to stay home and at my desk, putting off my run to
Central Market for curbside pickup until tomorrow. I have been a holdout about
grocery shopping, loudly proclaiming that I want to pick my own tomatoes. Megan
uses a shopping service that lets her order as much as she wants, as often as
she wants, for a minimal fee. I’m not there yet, but Jordan doesn’t want me to
get in and out of the car with my walker unless someone is watching me—works
fine when I meet friends for lunch or when I go to a doctor’s office where they
send someone out to make sure I neither fall nor get mugged. But the grocery
store has been a problem. I can hardly call Central Market or Tom Thumb and ask
them to send someone to help me in. Still, Jordan has more demands on her time
than taking me to the grocery.
Reluctantly I
tried the new curbside pick-up at Central Market, and now I’m a fan. I’ve had
no quarrels with the groceries I’ve gotten, and I find the people at curbside
uniformly pleasant and helpful. Too often I call and add something at the last
minute, and they willingly add it to my order.
But the big thing
is that I am a much more cost-efficient shopper when I have the choice of items
before me on the screen. Tonight, I realized that the brand of honey I usually
get is two dollars higher than a comparable product. I compare cheeses,
crackers, all sorts of things. Duke’s Mayonnaise, which I prefer because it’s
not part of ConAgra, is less expensive than Hellman’s. And those good fresh
spices—I can order an ounce and not pay eight dollars for a little jar of
ginger that will go stale in my cupboard. There are some things the store
doesn’t carry, and it’s not practical (or possible) to buy paper products
there, so I keep an auxiliary list. But it’s much shorter.
The rain is not
helping Sophie’s allergies, and the poor dear wants to be right by me when she
doesn’t feel well. So I am treated periodically to coughing, throat clearing,
and other less pleasant sounds. She’s psychic and considerate about my sleep
and waits till I wake from a nap to jump up on the bed and thrust her face into
mine. She paws at my hand until I scratch her head. I am always leery of one of
her coughing spells—don’t want her spitting up on my bed. But nothing dampens
the bond between us—she stares at me so intently, I know she’s telling me she
loves me, and I assure her I love her.
Life is good with
a dog.
