Just so you Know....

Occassionaly, I like to get paper grocery bags when I go to the grocery store.

It reminds me of when Steve-o and I were first married, living in the city,
in our apartment that we lovingly called "the ghetto apartment". It wasn't technically a ghetto apartment, but it was located in an odd neighborhood. We lived in a historic section of the city called the Heritage Hill district, where blocks upon blocks of beautiful old homes dating back to the 1800's were stacked along the tree-lined streets. Most of the homes were divied into apartments, or townhomes, some were beautifully restored. What made our particular neighborhood so interesting was that if you at on our front porch and looked across the street to the corner, you would see a gorgeous historic house for sale for $700,000, but if you looked to the opposite corner at the end of the block, you would see a subsidised housing apartment building on the corner where some shady "medicinal transactions" *wink, wink* would take place on a regular basis.

We loved that apartment. Cathedral ceilings, a lovely fireplace, arched doorways, pocket doors, hardwood floors, winding hallway. The alley cat that was forever pregnant that we (well, I) named Veda and fed every night on the back stoop, The mature oak tree in the front that dropped it's beautiful red leaves in the fall, the hammock on the front porch, the diverse, ecclectic and eccentric people that strolled our neighborhood sidewalks every evening. The crazy elderly cat ladies that lived next door, Pat and David, the gay couple that lived upstairs, Ada and her husband (whose name has slipped my mind because he always seemed to be gone) that lived in the other apartment upstairs, who used to make the BEST smelling gumbo ever. When Ada got to cooking the whole house would smell so divine, I would be salivating on the front porch as I rocked in the hammock and waited for Steve to come home from work.

We were within walking distance from the stuff downtown...the theatre, the River, the arena, the museums, the restaurants. On the corner of our block was a small mom and pop grocery store. A mere 2 houses down from ours. I would frequently come home from work (yes, there WAS a time when I worked at a "real", salaried place of employment that regularly withdrew taxes from my bi-weekly paychecks) and walk down to the corner store with our Sheltie Nikki and pick up some groceries for dinner. They would never ask "paper or plastic?" they just kindly placed your wares inside a paper bag and handed them to you on your way out. And then I would walk back home, with Nikki (who would wait outside for me), strolling down the sidewalk with my paper bag of groceries in hand. Waving to the neighbors, dodging Alcoholic Stu, who walked past our house twice daily for his daily fix at the corner store, saying hello to the crazy cat ladies. It was like living on Sesame Street. For real. Well, minus the drunk guy.

And that's why sometimes, when I go to the store, I ask for paper bags. Because it reminds me of then. First married and living in the city, walking home from the store, with my paper bag of groceries in hand. And it makes me happy.