The Yogurt Shop

We walked with daughter Rebecca and four grandchildren up to the noisy yogurt shop. Off-key vocals blared from hundred-watt karaoke speakers as teenagers took turns singing pop songs. We stopped, watched and listened.

My tweenage granddaughter Libby, who mouthed the words of every song, shouted in my ear over the noise, somewhat aghast, "Grandpa, the song they are singing has the 'B-word' in it--but it's okay because the guy singing changed it to 'Johnson.'"

Hum... changing "my bitch" to "my Johnson..." 

Sweet innocence.

Fruit pie with that?

When I go to MacDonalds for senior coffee in the morning, I find it a little annoying when the clerk says, "Would you like a fruit pie with that?" All clerks wear a button saying that fruit pies are free if they don't ask you about them.

 

This morning was different, The clerk, a somewhat crusty, likeable woman, said, "Fruit Pie? I can't imagine that anyone would eat a fruit pie for breakfast,"

I advised her in a low voice, "You need to be careful about talking that way; you'll get in trouble."

 

She smiled and whispered, "You're right."