Who's Minding the Kids? or Maybe, Who Are the Kids Minding?
We went to a summer festival on Saturday, and it was a good one: lots to see, a wonderful (though hot) day, and even some old friends we hadn't seen for a while. One incident sticks in my mind, and at the risk of sounding like a fuddy-duddy, I'll describe it. We were browsing the craft show, and a boy of about eight was playing with a vintage toy. His mother and grandmother (I'm guessing) were several tables away, looking at what they wanted to look at. The proprietors of the booth were watching the kid, and it was plain they weren't happy. After a minute, the grandmother looked up, saw the boy, and said, "Honey, the lady said you shouldn't play with that." The kid ignored her as if she hadn't spoken. So did the younger woman. Finally the owner said, "That's seven fifty if he breaks it." At that the older woman got angry. "Come on, Sweetie," she said. "We wouldn't buy anything here anyway." Two questions rose