By normal standards, I wouldn’t have noticed an older man pushing his granddaughter through a store in a grocery cart any more than I’d have noticed anyone else in particular. I’m usually intent on sticking to my grocery list and scolding my hands that seem to delight in sneaking forbidden cookies and chips into my cart. But Grandfather and Granddaughter were parked in the middle of the aisle, deep in play and so enraptured with one another, I couldn’t help but notice. The little girl sat in the grocery cart, her body quaking with giggles, her eyes mesmerized by the antics of her grandfather who was dancing a jig, twirling about and tapping his feet to the rhythm of the muzak playing through the store. The dancing, giggling, twirling, tapping ended only with the return of Grandma (who had apparently been down another aisle), and now was back to get on with the serious business of shopping.
So often, my writing time seems much like that little grocery store scene. An idea delights me, twirling about my mind much like a dancing grandpa, but then serious grandma comes ’round and I have to get down to business and set the idea out properly before it’s lost.
I don’t know which I love better — the myriad ideas that float in and out, or the buckling down to choose one thought … one scene … then working at it until it’s right and good. I read somewhere that man, is above all the plaything of his memory.
I suppose, then, my plaything for today is rolling around the sound of a little girl’s high laughter in a grocery store. Oh, and the way her grandfather’s long, gray mustache bounced over his lips when he danced. That too!