The two guys behind the counter were busy ringing up sales. And, the customers – my son and myself among them, were wandering the aisles as we figured out what to put together for dinner.
There were moms with young children in tow, a few 9-5 professional folks juggling boxes of freshly made pasta with small tubs of frozen marinara sauce and one or two holiday shoppers wandering around looking for stocking stuffers.
Outside, the parking lot was wall-to-wall cars. Lots of hustle and bustle for a small village just three days away from Christmas.
It was warm enough that I was comfortable in a hooded sweatshirt – no bulky winter jacket, no Gortex ski pants to cut the chill. In fact, there was no chill to speak of!
Perfect weather for visiting the cemetery to push the three-pronged, metal wreath stand into very soggy ground, anchoring it deep into the earth to prevent any fierce winds from blowing it over, before tying a wreath to it.
We stood, my son and I, in front of his grandparents’/my in-laws’ grave stone, admiring our handiwork. The wreath – one of the many that dotted the landscape – was more for our memories and a reminder of a promise that we would visit.
Fifteen minutes later, we were back in the car, slowly navigating the narrow driving paths leading to one of the village side streets. Back out to Main Street. Headed for The Red Bird Market, then home … and Christmas.