It's been a remarkable week for the Gentlemen Callers. Vintage WWII. Of course.
Sunday in the grocery store: Old gentleman peering into my grocery cart.
Looked like a war baby - about my age. Bald in khaki slacks and (you know I love this) topsiders. Much like the GC who was senile in Fresh Market a few years back. Remember him?
"Whoa, young lady. Wait up. Can't you see I've been following you?"
The "Where the hell do they keep the coconut milk?" question, was followed by my speedy comeback. "What are you going to do with coconut milk?"
Then, a brief synopsis of a dish often eaten as a child that his dad had brought the recipe back from the Pacific front. And that he has finally found said recipe among his late wife's things. "Been looking for it for three years."
The brief interchange and a few smiles led to a fountain Coke and a few Oreos (out of his cart) enjoyed in the little lunch area there at Publix Deli.
Monday at the plant store: Old gentleman peering into my cart full of roses.
Very trim, with a cane, plenty of grey hair, bermuda shorts and a gardening hat. Arms full of rose fertilizer. Sixty-ish. Maybe seventy. Very erect posture - could have been an Army brat during the '40's
"You like the knockout rose?' Before I could answer, "How big will those grow?" Pointing to the ones inside my buggy. My mouth opened to tell him, but "...got a place alongside the garage that nothing will grow in. If you drive down North Ride and you see a garage with wilting roses, stop in. I'm headed home to fertilize 'em right now."
Just now at Pet Smart: Old gentleman peering into my cart.
Older than me or the other two GC's. Probably fought in WWII or barely missed the cut. He's going into the store (jeans and a T-shirt) and I'm coming out (jeans and a T-shirt).
"Do you need any help, Missus?" Assessing the probable heaviness of my load. "How many of those cats do you have, anyway?" We speak of several things. Belle, the FabFive, his two terriers (black and tan), his beloved hound. The thunder rumbled, and the rain started to spit on us.
He gave me the most magnificent grin and said, "We are getting wet. Is this the place in the relationship that I write my telephone number on your hand?" He didn't. He wrote it on an old Home Depot receipt that he pulled out of his pocket. And so it goes.
