As a teen-age box boy at Meier and Frank's department store in Portland, my daily duty was to waggle a wheeled cart through the first floor, artfully dodging shoppers while I gathered mail order packages from various stations, then hustled them downstairs for mailing.

I got pretty good at it. Sometimes I snagged silk stockings on the legs of angry lady shoppers. But I was good enough to avoid lawsuits and went on to snag a less hazardous position as the in-store mail boy. I lugged a huge leather bag up and down stairs to 12 floors of department bosses.

Today, grocery stores provide fleets of wheeled baskets for us. I use them whenever I do the shopping.
But when I shop with Elsbeth, her German upbringing takes over. She prefers to drive one of those electric carts with a basket in front the size of a Volkswagen's trunk. She tosses her purse in the basket and launches herself.

I "puppy" along behind dutifully as she points out a cereal box on the top shelf, or box of broccoli in a freezer case.

But in that high-powered rig, her navigational tactics are alarming. She is a terror in tight spots. Last week some guy got impatient while I pawed over a couple of cantaloupes, not sure which one Elsbeth meant me to fetch.

He got too close to the right wheel on her power cart. Elsbeth did not see him behind her.

When she backed up to get a better angle on the produce bins, his shoe got squished. I rushed over to help, spilling my coffee on his colorful Hawaiian shirt. When I said the shirt looked wonderful with a map of Oahu just under the pocket, he was not amused.

He gave up and walked away when Elsbeth revved the engine and squinted at him like a tail-gunner. I don't blame him. She gave me the same look when we got home and she found a can of Alpo in the shopping bag.