In matters of poetry, black and white often turns grey.

In matters of poetry, black and white often turns grey.

In matters of poetry, black and white often turns gray.

“A book of poems,” the elderly woman asked the young gal behind the counter.

Last May, the mother of a lifelong friend searched for the perfect gift for her daughter on Mother’s Day. The object of her quest was a lovely, thoughtful book, highly recommended by a nationally syndicated-radio talk host out of Atlanta. During a show, he suggested to his female sidekick that it would be the perfect Mother’s Day gift.

Eighty-nine-year-old Aunt Mayrie, the name we called her growing up, belongs to a time of wearing white gloves to tea parties and serving sandwiches on even whiter bread with crusts removed. And one afternoon last May, Mayrie hopped in her Cadillac and drove to the local Barnes and Noble to find this magical book of poetry.

The perfect gift for her 49-year-old daughter.

The only problem was Mayrie couldn’t quite remember the title.

The most helpful salesperson led her up and down store aisles looking for this most perfect of all Mother’s Day gifts given such a ringing endorsement from Mr. Atlanta Talk Show Person.

When all hope was seemingly washed away as water spots on crystal with a little ammonia water, Mayrie’s aging eyes fell on a pile of books, propped up and stacked. Dozens of books featuring glossy covers artfully splayed across the front of the store.

“Here it is!” Mayrie exclaimed relieved to have found the treasure she had been searching for.

“’Fifty Shades of Grey’. This has to be it.”

As Mayrie searched for her wallet, she looked to the young clerk and politely asked, “Can I please have it gift wrapped.”

A few days later, Mayrie was talking with her son, my friend’s oldest brother. “I found the perfect gift for Sarah on the recommendation of Mr. Atlanta Talk Show Person. A book of poetry, ‘Fifty Shade of Grey.’”

“Poetry? Mom, it’s pornography.”

* * *

A few days later, my friend received a call from her mother.

“I won’t be able to give you your gift on Sunday.”

“That’s okay Mom. You can just give it to me next time you see me.”

“No I can’t. “

And that’s when the whole sorted tale was revealed. Now lest you think the octogenarian-and-over crowd in Orlando a bit prude, Mayrie has since learned that her contemporaries’ bridge group — all over ninety — have read the “Shades” trilogy and have yet to figure out what the all the hullabaloo is about.

I might be the only 49-year-old woman in America who hasn’t read “Grey.” But sounds like playing few hands at a certain bridge table might be a more productive use of time.