Tuesday, April 24, 2012


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."