Grandma And The Papergirl

- Ella Duquette, Syracuse, New York

I squinted against the afternoon sunshine, looking out the window for the paperboy. Ever since a stroke had weakened my legs, I hadn’t been able to get around so well. I depended on the paper to keep me up-to-date with a world from which I often felt disconnected. When the paper came late, I got edgy. Finally I saw someone coming down the street. A girl, no more than 10 or 11 years old, hurled a rolled-up newspaper toward my screen door. It landed with a thud.

“Just a minute,” I called out the window. “Where’s the usual carrier?”

“I’m the carrier now, lady,” she said, hands on her hips.

“Well, the old one used to bring the paper in to me.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I can do that.” She came in and plopped the paper onto my lap, and I got a better look at her.

Frayed shorts and a cropped top—and it wasn’t even summer yet. She tossed back her shoulder-length red hair and blew a huge pink bubble.

“I hate bubble gum,” I said.

“Tough beans,” she said.

I gasped. This snippy little thing needed to be taught some manners.

“The children around here call me Mrs. Lee, after my late husband.”

“Well, you can call me Kristin,” she said with a sassy tilt of her head, then bounded down the steps.

Just what I need, I thought. Nothing was easy anymore. Simple tasks like dusting and doing laundry were an ordeal these days. And baking, which I used to love, was far too much trouble. My husband, Lee, and most of my friends had passed on. Lately I had found myself wondering why the Lord had left me behind. It was clear to me, anyway, that if young people today all acted like that smart-alecky papergirl, I had been too long in this world.