OPINION —
He was a good kid. You could just tell.
He was maybe 11. Twelve at the most. He was in the supermarket. He had his little sister balanced on his hip. You don’t often see boys carrying toddlers out in public.
The kid was filling a shopping buggy. He was reaching for a bag of tortilla chips on the top shelf. I saw one of the older ladies in our aisle reach upward and remove a bag of Tostitos for him.
They were Tostitos Scoops. The greatest invention by the chip industry, and perhaps the finest human achievement of the last century with the possible exception of penicillin.
“Thanks,” the boy said.
His buggy was nearly full. He had lots of adult-ish items in his basket. Coffee. Vegetables. Diapers.
The older lady asked where the boy’s mother was. She asked this in a concerned, parental tone. Her concern, of course, is understandable in our modern day. You don’t often see kids wandering around by themselves anymore.
During my youth, however, shortly after the close of World War I, kids almost never had parental supervision.
We walked to school. Our mothers sent us to the store on errands. We hung out at the mall without supervision. We rode bikes into the woods, built campfires, constructed deathtrap treehouses and made serious attempts at discovering new ways to break our own legs. We were feral.
“Where are your parents?” said the older woman.
“My mom’s waiting in the car,” he said.
The woman’s brow furrowed. “She let you come in here by YOURSELF?”
He nodded, then readjusted Little Sister on his hip. Little Sister had a snot bubble the size of a Canadian territory.
“You’re GROCERY shopping?” the woman said.
Nod.
The lady was aghast. She wore the patented look of disapproval. “You shouldn’t be in here without an adult.”
The kid didn’t reply.
“Your mother should be with you,” she said in a half-scolding voice. “It’s dangerous. You’re too young to be by yourself.”
“But,” the boy explained kindly, “shopping’s not that hard.”
“That’s not what I meant. Your mother could get into a lot of trouble for leaving you unsupervised. This is unacceptable. Someone should tell the manager.”
Little Sister’s snot bubble reached critical mass.
The kid apologized. He looked embarrassed. He left the aisle and pushed his buggy to the cashier lane, often glancing behind him. Like he now realized he was doing something wrong.
I watched him load items on a conveyor belt. I saw him use a credit card to pay.
Later, I saw him in the parking lot. I saw the idling Honda that contained his mother. I saw Mom sleeping in the front seat. Then, I saw the middle-aged mother crawl from the vehicle. She was a skeleton.
I saw her pale skin. The bandanna over her balding head. The hospital bracelet on her wrist. The bandage on the bend of her elbow. She was trying to help her son load groceries, but she struggled to lift a single bag.
When they finished, the boy gave her a hug. And they held each other for a long time. Longer than a normal hug.
Because, as I say, he was a good kid. You could just tell.
Sean Dietrich is a humorist and stand-up storyteller known for his commentary on life in the American South. His column appears weekly in newspapers throughout the U.S. He has authored 18 books and makes appearances on the Grand Ole Opry.
