.

.

Johnny McLaughlin’s grocery-laden bicycle squeaks to a stop at the backyard stairs leading to my family’s kitchen. He dismounts, kicks the bike into a static tilt, lifts one brown paper bag per arm, and prepares to knock.

.

I open the door before bare knuckles can reach hard wood. Johnny grins and steps into the kitchen, carefully deposits his deliveries onto counter tops, descends to the bike two steps at a time to retrieve the rest of  our victuals.

.

It’s summertime 1950 A.D. I’m a mere handful of years old, but my responsibility for the day is to order groceries, receive their delivery, and unbag the goodies.

.

Johnny McLaughlin completes his chore and squeaks off to his next assignment as delivery  guy for York’s grocery store—officially known as York’s Home Food Center—up on Fifteenth Street.

.

I don’t know anything about tipping, don’t know exactly how Mom pays for the groceries (maybe a charge account?), don’t have a clue as to  how often Dad’s job as a carpenter can afford this food. In other words, my worldly cares are still pretty minimal. The weight of responsibility will make itself known years later.

.

Right now I just know that each grocery delivery is a miniature Christmas, a time of unwrapping and discovery.

.

Earlier in the day, I examine the bold-lettered penciled list Mom has left by the telephone. I rotary-dial York’s number and begin to read aloud our needs for the day. Mrs. York carefully records each item. Canned goods, produce, light bread, saltines, sardines, sugared goodies, plus those dreaded toiletry and hygiene products (hate to recite those). With crunchy peanut butter and grape jam, the roster is done. Waiting is what’s left.

.

Can’t wait for the sauerkraut and Pepsi-Colas, the crisp dill pickles and cookies. Can’t wait.

.

Mom will never know what a big deal it is to make me responsible for the grocery list. Johnny will never realize how his friendly appearance helps make my day. Dad won’t realize how much I appreciate the long hours he put in to bring this small ceremony of vittles to my awed presence. Max York won’t realize his importance in my life.

.

I’ll have to wait a bunch of decades to express gratitude, gratitude that comes only after I, too, have the job of delegating grocery duties to offspring, gratitude for the cycles of daily living that seem routine but are actually quite remarkable in memory ever green

.

© Jim Reed 2023 A.D.

.