A. and I stand behind her waiting to drown hot dogs (the boys, not mine) in the elixir of childhood goodness, ketchup.
She, an sweet-looking older woman in her 70s, struggles with the white, plastic pump containing the goodness for several minutes. I watch as she nearly drops her dinner plate. Twice. It’s a balancing act to turn the hamburger with one hand and maneuver the stubborn pump with the other.
“Can I pump your ketchup?” Geez. That sounds dirty even to me.
The little old lady’s eyes crinkle in confusion. I’ll admit. It’s an odd question. I’ll be as bold to venture it’s one never before posed to her.
“That would be lovely,” she says after an awkward silence. I step forward and push down on the top while the lady rotates her plate. It wasn’t her. The thing sticks like someone attached it with superglue.
“Here,” she points to a clean spot of the plate. “And maybe a little here?” She asks a bit more timidly.
Chaz, the boys and I are at a Florence Freedom baseball game with Cub Scouts. Every Sunday the team hosts Family Night, a fun event where after the game the kids run the bases and meet the players.
I didn’t know then that Family Night also includes helping someone else’s family but it seems appropriate. A. tugs on the napkin dispenser and hands the woman several folded, papers before she walks back to her seat.
Kindness with ketchup? Yeah, we play that game.