“Maybe it will move fast,” I thought, and took my place in line.
There is often a long checkout line at Whole Foods and today was no different, but the added six feet of social distancing between shopping carts made it worse. Through the large storefront windows, I mindlessly watched traffic on Duke Street and waited my turn to move toward the register. I was only vaguely aware of the rack of extracts and flavorings beside me, leftovers from the Christmas baking rush. Just ahead of me, I noticed frantic movement from someone in line.
A woman, already too far in front to reach the rack near me, waved her hand to get my attention. “Can you get me some vanilla?”
I nodded and turned to help. That’s when old memories came flooding back.
I’m no fan of winter weather now, but as a kid, there were times I looked forward to a heavy snowfall. Not because I missed school, or went sledding or built a snowman, but because my sister and I would go to the grocery store for my grandmother.
At some point as kids, we decided we must trudge through deep snow to our grandmother’s house, no matter the cold, to see whether she needed anything from the store. Nannie lived in a huge old farmhouse just across a field from us. She cooked often, and when she did, she made a lot. At any given moment, she likely had enough ingredients in her pantry and refrigerator to prepare an impromptu meal for 20. Still, we were sure she needed something, and we would gladly suffer the bitter cold to make the trip for her. We were going to save the day, after all.
Fueled by the excitement of our impending usefulness, we braved biting winds and plodded across the snowy field. We stomped snow from our boots and headed inside Nannie’s house to await what was sure to be her massive checklist of indispensable items. How else could she make it to the spring thaw if not for us? She relied on us. We were important. We waited stoically for her extensive list of needs.
“Well,” Nannie began as she watched falling snow pile against the window, “can you get me some vanilla?”
We knew she baked a lot, but still. What about milk? Bread? Eggs? Just ... vanilla? Well, if it was important to Nannie, it was important to us. Vanilla was apparently very, very necessary during inclement weather. How fortuitous that we arrived when we did! Off to the store in foul weather we walked, vanilla purchased, and back again to Nannie’s house. We might have returned cold, soaked, red-cheeked and tired... but, mission accomplished. See? We knew she needed us.
“Here you go,” I said, and handed over the tiny brown bottle.
That pattern repeated for years whenever there was a heavy snow. If a year happened to have two heavy snows, Nannie somehow needed two bottles of vanilla. Our timing was uncanny. How relevant we were. It was important Nannie have that vanilla and without our help, her hopes were dashed. All would have been lost, certainly. We felt an amazing sense of accomplishment after making those icy trips for her. We might be kids, but look at us. We mattered!
Years later, as adults, my sister and I sat with Nannie on her back porch one hot afternoon. Although it was summer, our conversation worked around to those long-ago winters and our frigid walks to the store. I laughed and asked her why she needed so much vanilla. She sipped her iced tea, and grinned.
“I didn’t need vanilla. You wanted to be of help, so that’s what I asked for,” Nannie said.
She admitted there were probably times she truly needed something, but would never have asked us kids to carry groceries through the snow. She only “needed” vanilla because she knew being helpful mattered to us — and vanilla was easy to carry!
A few years after that conversation, Nannie was gone. While emptying her house, I stood in the kitchen and absent-mindedly opened a cabinet. There, in a back corner, were several bottles of vanilla. I can never be sure any were purchased by two kids in a snowstorm, but I slipped one into my pocket just the same.
I still have that reminder today.
Just then, a movement ahead of me in line caught my eye.
The woman was still waving her hand to get my attention. She repeated, “Can you get me some vanilla?”
I mentally stomped snow from my boots as I reached for it.
“Here you go,” I said, and handed over the tiny brown bottle.
