Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds

Once, all of us were three-and-a-half feet tall, and our grandmother's name was Lucy, or that was what she came to be named.

Once, I was an average height male. It is not unusual, now, to talk to someone who is a foot taller than I.

Once, baby buggies were little flimsy things with wire-spoked wheels, and the whole, folding apparatus weighed about ten pounds. Now they are only slightly larger than a mini-car. The kids are bigger, too.

I am amazed, and admire the young women who come to the coffee shop pushing hi-tech transport systems, nosing-in, backing-off, re-positioning the tandem or side-by-side, reaching around to open the heavy door with the hydraulic closer, in order to get into the coffee shop. We sit there, at our tables, so deeply engrossed in our admiration that we forget to get up and help. "Who are here new-age women; these cultural Amazons?"

They are ordinary women, doing what Lucy has always done, tending the transition.

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