It’s still dark outside the kitchen window. I’m preparing breakfast and thinking about the local grocer and his wife. Nothing weird: in fact, I smile at the memory of yesterday’s kindness.
I had dropped by Pappas Grocery on 12th Avenue in Denver to pick up a few items for dinner and the next day’s breakfast. Since I had an early flight and a late return four days later, I wanted to stock up on some basics. Entering, I greeted the manager standing behind the tiny counter by the door.
I come here often enough to know my way around, so basket in hand I walked the neatly stacked shelves, picking up some jelly and a few items of produce. While I was able to resist the beckoning jars of local jellies and pickles, I gave in and picked up the sautéed peppers and onions that are just like my grandmother made. At the combination deli/meat counter, I found fresh organic chicken parts and these went into the basket, too, along with an impulsive choice of feta and spinach chicken sausage. The last aisle opens onto a wall of freezer and dairy cases. I found the yogurt easily but didn’t see eggs, the one essential for my early breakfast.
At the counter near the front door, I unloaded my shopping basket and asked where I might find the eggs. “Eggs?” the manager asked. “I’ll find them.” I followed, thinking it would be good to know where to look next time. I met him as he returned from the dairy section, shaking his head regretfully. “All out”, he said. “No problem”, I answered. Unexpectedly, he asked, “How many do you need to get through tonight?” “Two.” “Wait- I’ll see what’s in the back.”
In the back is an unseen place behind the deli counter. I imagined a tiny kitchen with two burners and a small refrigerator from which special lunch offerings might emerge. The woman at the checkout started to ring up and bag my selections. The manager came back with two chilled brown eggs carefully encased in a plastic Ziploc bag. He placed them in my cupped palm, saying “this should get you through.” We all laughed and I thanked them both profusely.
It’s fine to have big ambitions and be a businessman (or woman) who’s always on the job, making money. But in that small exchange, my neighbor gave me confirmation of our shared humanity, caring and simple food. The cost of the groceries was about nineteen dollars; the value of a neighborly gesture: priceless.
