spring chicks

In the town where I lived as a child and where I now live, once again, there is a feed store that sells baby chicks from the windows. The arrival of these babies have always marked the coming of Spring for me. My sisters and I would beg our paternal grandpa to take us to see the fuzzy little chicks running around under large warming lights. We would stand there, peeking through the glass, ooing and ahhing at the sight of them. It was something of a ritual for us.
When my children were small and we would visit my grandparents in the Spring, I would drag everyone out to see the baby chicks in the window.  This year, though, it wasn't me doing the dragging or begging. My grandbaby squealed with glee as we drove past the feed store on the way to the dry cleaners nearby while we were out doing errands on a recent Saturday.
"Stop Grandad. I want to see in the window," she said. She didn't have to beg. He made the block and pulled in. She didn't have to drag him out to look at the baby chicks with her. He went pretty willingly, as my Grandpa ultimately did. It was fun to watch them watch the chicks. To do so was rather like watching my past connect demonstrably to my present.