The world as I know it doesn’t exist anymore. It changed on Saturday afternoon.

The day began well. It was sunny, and the birds were hopping around in the yard doing bird stuff. The buds on the dogwood trees showed promise, and the peonies were well up.

It was a day conducive to getting things done. And that’s what we did. Amazingly enough, several projects were finished without interruption. That doesn’t happen very often.

A visit to the grocery store was on the list of things to be done, and it was during this task that the world changed.

I had picked up the things needed and was in line behind a few other people.

There was a group conversation going on in the line among customers, the bag boy and the checkout girl. They were talking about Easter eggs, and I wasn’t paying a lot of attention until I heard one lady say, “We never did it.”

Another person commented, “I don’t know how either. We always used plastic eggs.”

That’s when I realized that this conversation was about Easter eggs and how to dye them.

The oldest person in the group was a lady who had to be at least 45 years old. She was the one who said “We never did it.”

The person who said her family always used plastic eggs was probably 30.

The checkout girl was about 20, and the bag boy was a teenager.

The checkout girl wanted to know how to do it. So I jumped right in there, unasked, and volunteered that you used vinegar and food coloring to dye eggs.

Everyone looked at me with amazement. That’s when it hit me. I was the old lady in the bunch in possession of ancient wisdom. I had the answers.

The checkout girl said, “Do you just put it on them? Do you have to cook them?”

“Yes,” I said. “You boil them.”

“Can you eat them if you use vinegar?”

“Yes. It’s harmless, and the food coloring is, too. But you shouldn’t eat them once the shell is cracked.”

“Oh,” she said.

The bag boy listened intently.

I said, “You can Google it and get directions.”

I sincerely hope that is true. I haven’t tried to Google it myself, but am assuming the information will be stored in there right next to the stuff about Betsy Ross and the flag.

“Thank you,” said the checkout girl.

Next time I check out, I may tell them about typewriters and dial-up telephones.