Optimism in the grocery store

Come with me on a weird look at how my mind works:

I don't know about time in a bottle, but today I bought optimism in a can.

It's called a 1.95-ounce container of fish food flakes -- the only size the nearest grocery store carries -- that you're buying to feed your sole surviving goldfish, when a 1-ounce can fed three, then two fish for the last 16 months.

Yep, that's optimism.

James got the fish for his birthday gift, back when he turned 4. Our first casualty happened sometime last summer. I expected the others to quickly follow suit, but they've amazed me with their staying power.

I've liked these little pets. The bowl is on the kitchen counter and I swear the fish swim toward me when I'm loading the dishwasher saying "Feed me! Feed me!" in their mime-ish way. The kids say all they do is swim, eat and poop -- but they also provide a way to cheer up Samuel when he cries. Want to feed the fish? we'll say, and he immediately brightens. Today I discovered our second casualty, and also that we were out of fish food (maybe the two are related?)

This meant another trip to the grocery store, our fourth this week. At least this time I wouldn't have to deny my kids' requests to buy overpriced bananas, Grandma Ann had already taken care of that.

Ann is our special 91-year-old neighbor. She is lively and mentally tip-top, with a stubborn desire to continue living on her own, a stubbornness that intensifies even as her physical abilities steadily decline. Still she loves life, and we love her. She reminds me in many ways of my dear Grandpa Earl, whom I still miss greatly, four Junes after he fell off a ladder.

Ann pulled in our driveway this afternoon on her "banana route," as she calls it, to drop us off a bunch. She likes to pick up extra bananas and distribute them to the youngsters on our street.

Grandpa Earl had an affinity for bananas, too. Every visit was another venue for him to lean forward, slyly tilt his head, and say, "You know, I never buy green bananas." He laughed every time. His health history of heart attacks and strokes belied his longevity. He completed crossword puzzles every day and at 88 still tended a huge vegetable garden grown not at all for himself, but so he could share with his family and friends. His death was a shock.

In the sorting weeks afterward we found his short grocery list written on a scrap of blue paper on the kitchen counter. The only item I remember is bananas.

Optimism takes many forms, I guess, as long as we have the promise of someone to care for and share it with.

Grandpa Earl, 88, and great-grandson James, 8 months. October 2004.