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Saturday, October 24, 2015

Memory, with olives--

detail from Clive Hicks-Jenkins art in Maze of Blood
The five of us--no, we were just four then--stopped at a pizza place in Durham after looking at used cars. Our daughter was probably three, a little blond curly-top. She asked for black olives on the pizza, and the waitress told her that they didn't have black olives. R. didn't say anything, but her eyes filled with tears. But when our pizza came, it was black with olives. The waitress had crossed a busy highway, walked to the grocery on the other side, and bought olives to bring back and put on that pizza.

I wish that I remembered her name. I wish that we were all as kind as that young woman.

The world would be all love and olive branches.
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2 comments:

Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.

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