Saturday's shopping experience was different than our usual Friday-designated day for picking up the groceries we require to see us through the week. The supermarket where I generally shop was packed with shoppers, a situation I'd never before witnessed, not to the extent that it presented itself, with even shopping carts being in short supply, let alone parking spaces.

My husband, as usual, waited for me in the car, since our little dog pines when he's left on his own at home, and we will not leave him alone in the car. That occasion of quiet rest gives my husband the opportunity to look through the daily newspapers.

I usually become so engrossed in the shopping process that I barely look about me, to notice other shoppers. Three-quarters of the way through the aisles this Saturday, I happened to glance up and saw a young girl struggling to place her younger sister in the seat of one of those shopping carts equipped with more robust seats meant to properly seat and secure young children. I swiftly assessed the situation, and left my cart to offer to help.

There were four little girls of East Indian extraction. Typical long black glossy braids, bright inquisitively intelligent eyes, and beautiful beyond belief in their freshness and innocent sweetness. The oldest appeared to be around ten or eleven, the second-oldest around eight, the third I judged to be about 6. All the little girls were slender and appeared tall for their age. The mother, in contrast was neither slender nor tall. I had the impression she was slightly shorter than me, at five feet. She wore a Muslim scarf, the little girls wore frilly dresses.

The mother of these children looked young enough to be their (much) older sister, not their mother. And she obviously had her hands full, holding in her arms the very youngest who looked about a year-and-a-half old, the image of her older sisters. "She's heavy", the mother protested, as I bent slightly to pick up her 6-year-old whom the 12-year-old was unable to adequately lift. But she wasn't, not the least bit, and I lifted her easily and placed her in the car seat, while her two older sisters observed me quizzically.

The young mother thanked me profusely, I smiled and moved on with my food shopping. And was surprised at the sheer level of gratitude expressed yet again when the mother of the little girls approached me while I was looking through the dairy products. It was my pleasure, I told the mother, and commented appreciatively on the beauty of her children.

It had been pleasurable, the sight of those little girls and the lively family scene was touching and beautiful. And it presented no problem for me, aiding them in such a small way. I suppose it was my grey hair that had given the mother pause.

And then I paused later when, approaching the cash-out registers, one of the cashiers leaned over to speak to me as I lined my shopping cart up behind another shopper. I was unable to make out what she was saying, asked "pardon?" twice, before I could finally make out her reminder to me that I was waiting in an "express" line-up, with far too many purchases in my shopping cart.