My husband Jamie and I were in the cereal aisle of the supermarket. A few feet away there was a coupon dispenser with a little flashing red light. A small girl standing nearby grinned at my husband as she placed the tip of her finger on the light. He smiled back and asked, "Is that fun?"
Before the child could answer, a woman's voice from the other side of the aisle called out, "Suzie! Come here." The woman glared at Jamie, grabbed Suzie by the hand, and moved swiftly away from us. In these times of "stranger danger," we understood why she'd feel afraid when she saw an unknown man talking to her daughter. But it made us a little sad.
Later that day, I was remembering my childhood. We lived in a Bronx neighborhood of apartment buildings and family-owned stores. Even at age six, I'd been allowed to play outside, in front of our building, by myself. In fact, I don't remember my mom telling me "Don't talk to strangers" until I was in high school. Even then, the "strangers" were boys who had cars in which I was forbidden to ride.
