It could have been my Grandmother Mommie Soph. <\/p>\n
Except Mommie Soph didn’t drive a big fat assed red Cadillac… she preferred practical cars, like a Buick (in general she called cars a “machine”; but specifically the Buick was called Byurick<\/em>). <\/p>\n And this woman didn’t really look like Mommie Soph. Her hair was white with a tinge of blue (Mommie Soph’s remained sandy ’til her end). <\/p>\n And she didn’t dress like Mommie Soph either. No. This Grandmother was certainly well turned out… white slacks, golden coloured top worn with a blue bengal striped over shirt (collar up, if you please, and sleeves rolled to below the elbow). I’m not big at noticing footwear; but I checked out what this Grandmother was wearing: white heels accented with swaths of the same gold as her top. <\/p>\n I could have seen her in Sanibel (the place my Mother would go to acquire sea shells and a tan). <\/p>\n Or I could have seen her on the Auto Train… that form of transportation that allows us to move fat assed Cadillacs from North to South in the winter, and reverse it for summer. <\/p>\n Or maybe I could have seen her at the Deli counter picking up some roast beef, some pastrami, a little corned beef, sweet munchie cheese & some half sour pickles. <\/p>\n But I didn’t espy this Grandmother in any of those situations. No. <\/p>\n I saw this Grandmother pumping high test into her car at Cumberland Farms (which happens to be the best price for gas in our Burg). Maybe if Mommie Soph were around — she would be doing the same thing. <\/p>\n I guess I am old enough to remember the days when no one<\/u> pumped gas into your car; but the attendant. And sometimes the attendant would wear a bow tie as part of his “uniform”… I think it was supposed to lend a layer of “class” to the service (similar to boxing referees who do the same). <\/p>\n So, maybe this is all about progress. We have transitioned into a “pump-your-own” society. And that includes men and women of every stripe and of every age. It makes no matter today, we all do it… even Grandmothers dressed to the nines driving fat assed Cadillacs. <\/p>\n No. She wasn’t Mommie Soph. But I loved this woman’s presence and confidence. She needed no advice, nor instruction. She glanced at me perhaps thinking that maybe I <\/strong>was in need of help. And I could imagine that if she were wearing a bow tie, her next question could have been, “should I check under your hood?” <\/p>\n So maybe this is not about progress; but about empowerment. We are no longer dependent on some sub-altern to provide a service that “anyone” can easily do. You don’t need to be an accomplished mechanic to pump gas. I can do it. You can do it. <\/p>\n Even Mommie Soph could do it, if she were still with us — as improbable as that sounds. <\/p>\n And come to think of it, maybe all of this is not as improbable as your corner gas guy making gefilte fish! <\/em>Now that <\/em>takes superior talent and casual interest or ability won’t yield acceptable results. <\/p>\n Mommie Soph… I’m still thinking about you. <\/p>\n And I hope that is not improbable at all. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" It could have been my Grandmother Mommie Soph. Except Mommie Soph didn’t drive a big fat assed red Cadillac… she preferred practical cars, like a Buick (in general she called cars a “machine”; but specifically the Buick was called Byurick). … Continue reading