She informed me this way, “ Are you ready?”

I’m used to this line of inquiry and expected the usual dog walk. “Be sure to grab the checkbook.” This was the clue that there would be the dreaded ‘shopping’ foray, deep into the heart of Federal Way’s shopping menagerie that I normally try to duck.

She was ready for me this time and employed the one caveat that I couldn’t refuse.

“We can start at the bookstore, if you want,” she added.

I hauled my frame from in front of the computer and we made for the car. I was relieved to get some respite from the story I was reading about the life and death of former Beatle George Harrison.

There are lots of different ways to become melancholy during the holidays and this news was just right. So as the wife and I drove toward the glow of taillights in the packed traffic, I reflected on the good memories surrounding George’s life and music.

I was a devoted Beatle fan, having grown up during the sixties, my brother Pat and I would sit in his bedroom and wonder at the gorgeous harmonies and complex arrangements that set the stage for hundreds of rock and pop music groups that would follow.

George Harrison would set himself apart with his eastern influenced leanings, playing the sitar beautifully and lending an ethereal, timeless feel to his share of the great music the Beatles produced.

George’s lifelong search for spiritual meaning colored all of his music and drew him to establish relationships with the Indian mystic Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, and musician Ravi Shankar and to be the first to hold benefit concerts for the less fortunate, raising $15 million dollars for the people of Bangladesh.

His spiritual nature came to the forefront as he neared his death and it was reported that among his last words were, ‘Love one another.’

It’s a wonderful, simple message to give, and while some may label it as a vestige of a timeworn sixties peace and love mindset, I felt it strongly enough to say to Mrs. Anthony, “I love you, honey, and I’ve decided that I love everyone else too.”

She is not surprised to hear this declaration because I often come out of left field like this, just to keep her on her toes.

“Well,” she said, “How about that guy that just cut you off.”

I gritted my teeth and said through the rain smeared glass, “I LOVE YOU!” repeating it several more times to several more lovely cars and their lovely occupants as we jockeyed for position at each jam packed, lovingly unsynchronized traffic light.

I was being facetious of course, but that is my way of inserting the larger message.

We got to the first store and waded into the mass of shoppers.

Mrs. Anthony changes visibly when in shopping mode, becoming wide-eyed and light on her feet. She directs me to follow her as she flits around the aisles, deftly checking size and price tags, making audible ‘hoooo’ sounds when she spies something discounted.

And like usual, my eyes began to glaze over as my arms filled with Christmas booty and just as I was lamenting not having found one of the elusive shopping carts, I heard someone shouting.

"America.... America..." the voice belonged to a woman standing at the store exit. She was moving her head from side to side as she called out.

I watched as she focused on a little girl who was only a few feet from me.

"America!" she called, and the little girl turned her face up toward mine. I felt my heart swell like a ten-cent balloon.

She was incredibly beautiful, with cafe-au-lait skin, long eyelashes surrounding eyes the size of quarters, her dolled up hair and winter clothes made her look like a living cabbage patch doll.

She was playing with a toy from a discount rack and as her eyes met mine I got that powerful rush of emotions I feel whenever angelic children cross my path. It is a mix of emotions as the result of growing up in a big family and of the hard decision of Mrs. Anthony and I to not have children of our own.

It didn’t seem so difficult at the time. We were young and had good jobs.

We could have been excellent parents but after weighing all the options, we didn’t feel the biological burn to have them and from time to time we still tussle with that decision.

Now, faced with the beneficent, smiley countenance of this little sweetheart before me, I felt the warm-heartedness of paternal instinct and watched longingly as she spun around and ran to her mother, both of them fading into the crowd outside.

Mrs. A hadn’t seen this and tugged me towards the checkout counter. Because of my clumsy pace, another couple of shoppers bumped their way into the line in front of us.

“Do you still love everybody,” she said into my ear. Still a little dazed, I think I said, “Yeah...I do.”