North Star Writers Group

The other day my first wife Sally and I visited one of those so-called “super stores” that are roughly the same size as the state of Wyoming and offer for sale every possible item you might want to buy plus about a gazillion other things you have absolutely no use for whatsoever.

There was a time when Sally and I would surprise each other with neat little gifts while prowling stores like that one.

I’d shell out a few bucks at the lingerie and jewelry counters, she’d slip over to the sporting goods department and buy me a fishing rod, or a few rather expensive fishing lures that were supposed to catch Lunker bass, but never did.

On this, our most recent super store adventure, Sally went in with a shopping plan that was as detailed as all get out and about the same length as Margaret Mitchell’s novel, “Gone With The Wind.”

“While I’m picking up a few groceries,” she advised, “You find the pet supplies department and see if they have any portable cages for Matilda, OK?” Note: Just in case you are wondering, Matilda, all three-plus pounds of her, is our new puppy.

Note number two: You also should know that whenever Sally gives me an assignment at a super store, it’s always at the far end of the usually-cavernous building.

In this case, the pet supplies department was approximately 11 miles from the front door of the store.

But, being the loving and faithful husband I am, I didn’t complain about it. Instead, I grabbed a cart and, after a lengthy search, found someone who worked at the store.

“Excuse me,” I said, “Could you tell me where the pet supplies are?”

“Sure can,” the man cheerfully replied, “Just take aisle three due east past aisles four, five, six, seven, eight and nine, hang a right at the paint department, then do a quick left turn at the lawn ornaments. Keep on going past the gas grills, sporting goods and non-prescription medications and, bingo, you’re there. And, hey, have a nice day, OK?”

“Don’t bank on it,” I called over my shoulder as I moved away, silently wishing I’d packed a lunch, or, at the very least, brought a six pack of beer with me for my latest super store adventure.

Thirty minutes later, when I arrived at the pet items, I quickly located the dog cages and slipped one of them into my cart.

Then, as I headed out to meet my wife, I spied a display of those absorbent floor pads that supposedly are a “must” for people who are potty-training puppies. I figured Sally would appreciate them, so I tossed a package into my cart and took off again.

A few minutes later when my wife and I were reunited in the house wares department, I lifted the package from the cart and handed it to her.

“Ta-da!” I declared. “I bought you a little surprise.”

She eyed the package in my hand and then, after trying desperately to muster a smile, reached into her cart and handed me a box containing a toaster.

I’m 67 years old.

Not once in my lifetime have I ever received a toaster as a gift. The closest I ever came was in the third grade when we had a gift exchange at Oak Street Elementary School and the classmate who drew my name gave me an orange.

I cried for a week.

I took another look at the box with a toaster in it and managed a smile. That accomplished, we headed off toward the checkout lanes. . .

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