Rob and I went to Kroger, our local grocery store, by ourselves. That hardly ever happens, but my Dad was at home guarding the kids, so we went on a short "date."
We bought peppers and lettuce and dinner rolls and other various things, and headed for the check out. The line was short and soon we were standing in front of the cashier.
Normally when I'm at the store, I've taken in my surroundings in the check out line. For a few reasons:
1 - I'm trying to ignore my children and keep my sanity amidst their shouts for candy.
2 - I'm checking out the magazine racks. You have to keep your eyes moving quick if you want to see the latest headlines about Jon Bonet's killer and Jen's baby news and Brad and Angelina's relationship woes. It's my 3 minutes of celebrity gossip--about all I can stand.
3 - I'm trying to assess how quickly the bagger is going, so I know how quick I'll be out of the store. I'm not picky about the baggers being fast, I just want to know so that I know how long I have to keep my children at bay.
4 - I'm looking for objects that would be easy to shove into pockets, and I'm watching my children's hands in relation to those objects and their pockets.
But my children weren't with me. And my husband was. So I was chatting with Rob and being friendly with the cashier. Watching the items I'd purchased to make sure the right prices rang up (do I normally care? No. Just get me out of the store!). And then I turned and saw the bagger.
And I froze.
There was my grandpa, more than 10 years passed, bagging my groceries.
I just stared at him. He was probably in his late 70's, had thin white hair, his nametag said Richard, and in general he had nothing in common with my grandpa. Except for his hands. His hands shook.
It's hard to describe that shaking. But I know it from my childhood. By the time I came along, my grandpa was an old man. As long as I'd existed, his hands shook. And I hated it. I held those hands SO TIGHT, trying to make them stop shaking. It never worked. And I would wake up some mornings and my hands would be shaky and I would be so afraid, thinking my hands would now always shake. Just like Grandpa's.
And suddenly, in the middle of Kroger, I was that 9-year-old little girl, trying to stop the shaking. I looked at Richard, and my heart ached. It ached because I couldn't stop my grandpa from dying, and because I still miss him. It ached because, for a moment, Richard WAS my grandpa. And, damn it, my grandpa should NOT be working as a bagger at Kroger.
I wanted to grab Richard and say, "Don't you have a son you can live with? Can no one take care of you? Does no one love you?" I wanted to offer to love him. I wanted to take him home right then and give him a place to stay. To offer him my home, my food, and my care.
It took Richard a while to bag everything, and we had to wait an extra few seconds. He finished and then looked up into my eyes to say, "Thank you. Have a good day." Richard's eyes were old, but they weren't tired.
We walked out to the car and I bawled like a baby. Rob asked what was wrong. I explained, and then admist angry tears I shouted, "My grandpa SHOULDN'T be working at KROGER!" I cried some more. "But that's crazy," I said. "I don't even know the man."
When I got home I talked with my Dad about the old man I'd seen, how he'd reminded me of Grandpa (my Dad's Dad), and how I'd cried. My Dad went into politics, the changes in the economy, and the disappearing retirement packages. No encouraging words about how maybe Richard wanted to be working, out of boredom. Let's be honest: he probably was there because he had to be.
And in that moment I firmly decided: Too few of our elderly are taken care of.
My grandpa should NOT be working at Kroger.
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