Just a few minutes earlier, I wandered into a local business and the clerk said, “Hey, Grant! Did you bring me that comb honey?”
I stopped in my tracks. I forgot, again. I forgot, despite having it written down on a list, though my reason for stopping at this particular business on this particular day was somewhat spontaneous.
Before I could offer an apology, the clerk turned to her manager and said, “Grant is going to bring me some comb honey.”
The manager turned and said, “Oh, do you have honey?”
I nodded in the affirmative.
She continued, “Is it local, raw honey? I need some for my allergies.”
I half-way expected her to recognize me, though some people do not physically recognize me even as they buy my honey in the local health food store, the farmer’s markets and from my driveway.
Then she added, “We used to drive out on Highway 61, north of town, and buy it from a preacher. He had this stand in his driveway, on the honor system, you know, but we heard he died so we don’t go out there anymore, but we’ve been looking for local, raw honey. My allergies are horrible this year.”
The clerk and I shared a confused look. I said to the manager, “But I’m that guy. Where did you hear I was dead?”
Bless her heart. In her befuddled embarrassment, she quickly changed the subject, asking how much I charged for a quart of honey, then retreated into her office.
That’s when I checked my pulse. I turned to the clerk and said, “Well, either I’m still alive or this place is heaven.”
The clerk looked at me and said, “The way things went this morning, this place is definitely not heaven!”
If you should hear that I died, at least up the posting of this blog, I’m still alive. No need to call my “widow” and ask if the bee hives are for sale.