Ice cream, flower run leads to misplaced coin purse
I call it my hot fudge honesty experience.
It was a Mother’s Day weekend filled with a frenzy of activity. In a break in the whirlwind, I dropped by the Dairy Queen for a hot fudge sundae, which is always a welcome respite at the end of a busy week.
I got my hot fudge sundae, went home, remembered I hadn’t gotten my Mother’s Day geraniums for the porches and went off to complete that task. I had a nagging feeling there was something I was forgetting. Remembering is not my strong suit now anyway.
On the way to pick up the geraniums, I helped a guy load groceries into his car. I have never seen so many boxes of Cheerios in one place. He must have the lowest cholesterol in the world. I left him loading the milk and walked away feeling like I had forgotten something.
Having chosen my geraniums, I distracted myself in the checkout line by chatting with a fellow nurse. When it was my turn to pay, I searched in my tote mindlessly and paid for the geraniums. When I got home, I plopped down in a chair and then it came to me: I hadn’t seen my coin purse.
If you are a young reader, you well may ask, what is a coin purse? That was the look on the faces of the young servers at the Dairy Queen when I went back looking for my coin purse. It is a little rectangular shaped, zippered bag with Native American weaving that holds coins and a few dollars. They shook their head, suggesting they didn’t exactly know what one was; hadn’t found one.
I was standing at the counter when an older server, I’d say about age 20, came from the back of the Dairy Queen holding between her thumb and forefinger like it was a dead fish my coin purse. She handed it to me without a word while four or five servers stood around looking puzzled.
“Mrs. Jones had it,” she remarked when I asked where she got it.
I asked to see Mrs. Jones. When the proprietor came around the corner, she yelped and grabbed my hand.
“Girl,” she said, “they are always telling us to get rid of our big bags and I am telling you to get one.”
She patted the back of my hand as if to say, “You naughty girl.”
“They do make small clutches, you know,” she lectured me for a minute or two. Then she smiled and sent me on my way.
I have known Wanetta Hammer Jones most of my life. Her husband, Kirk Hammer, used to come by on a weekly basis to see how my practice was doing when I came home. He was a man known for his integrity and community spirit, and so is Wanetta.
She is a consummate business woman; underneath a woman of integrity, honesty and compassion. These are traits she has instilled in her employees — a rare find nowadays.