It's late afternoon, and I'm walking home for work, all decked out in my dress for success clothes, although they are somewhat worse for wear. My job requires man-handling 8-foot tables, crawling on the floor to plug in projectors, and picking up dirty dishes and moving chairs around. A lot of people think my receptionist job is glamorous; if they only knew. It's the early 1980s and there's a recession going around.
It's mid-spring and the trees in my older end of town are in bloom. It's a fairy land. I love these longer days that stretch until about 9:00 p.m.
At one of the older homes, a little boy, about four, waits on his front stoop, sitting on a trike. He sees me blocks away and waits until I'm in front of his house. Then he makes a bee-line for me. a furious peddle.
He wants to have a chat. "Do you have any surprises?" he asks. He's got dark hair and eyes. "No, " I say. He's parked on my high heeled shoes and is looking straight up at me. "Why do you ask?"
The little guy is as earnest a soul as you can find, and explains, "My dad says women are just full of surprises."