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My mother, who grew up in the heart of the Big Apple and bought every piece of meat she ever prepared pre-packaged from a butcher or grocery store, headed to the sporting goods department one lazy afternoon. She knew what she needed, because it was written right there on the pattern.

No one was manning the counter, so she waited a bit, milling about the lures and lanterns. After waiting awhile to no avail, she began to wonder if she was in the right place. She thought about meandering down a few aisles to look around. Considering her lack of experience in this department, though, she worried that it might take awhile to find what she needed.

As she pondered what to do, a very handsome clean-cut young gentleman happened by. She reached out for help, "Excuse me sir, do you know where I might find buckshot?" She gave him a big smile, sure that he knew his way around this department.

"Well Ma'am, this is the bullet counter. What kind of shotgun do you have?"

Mom's eyes grew big. Although there was a time or two when she wished she had one -- she has been married to Dad for more than 40 years -- she gently replied, "I don't have a gun." Since the young man seemed confused, she explained further. "I need it to weigh down a doll."

Clearly, the young sportsman was wishing he hadn't been so polite as he tried to help someone's grandma in the sporting goods department. He was not prepared to answer doll questions. He took a deep breath and, seeing someone with the name of the store embroidered on a brightly colored vest, he offered, "I really don't know, ma'am. But here comes someone who works here." He pointed to the associate and then ducked into the fishing aisle.

Mom's eyes met those of the sales associate -- surely someone who worked here had sold buckshot to an old doll artist. "Hello, miss. I'd like a third of a cup of buckshot, please."

The woman, who'd slid behind the counter while Mom was making her request, stopped dead in her tracks. She looked up at Mom and, after the words registered, explained, "I'm sorry, we don't sell it that way."

"Oh, no problem. Do I have to get a pound?" Mom knew good and well that this wasn't exactly the deli counter. She realized that the buckshot probably came in prepackaged portions.

The associate, however, was perplexed. She started out slowly, "No, ma'am ... You can buy the bullets in a box. I suppose you could open the bullets and pour out the shots."

Mom studied her words. Maybe the associate didn't understand. Mom offered more information, "I need about a third of a cup to weigh down a doll."

The associate stared at Mom, not sure how to respond. Four men, who'd gathered at the counter to purchase boxes of bullets for their shotguns were also staring at Mom. They hung on every word of this unusual sporting goods department conversation, eagerly awaiting the outcome.

Breaking the silence, Mom pulled something out of her purse and went on, "OK, let me check my pattern." She pulled her glasses up out of the way so she could read the tiny print. "Yes, here it is. 'Steel shot' is what I need."

The associate, patiently processing all of the information innocently pouring forth from this gray-haired lady, confidently took on the challenge. "You say it's for a doll?" Mom nodded and smiled. "Well, let me see." The associate was on to something. Mom could see the wheels turning. A light bulb seemed to go off. The associate's eyes brightened as she made her way from behind the counter, "Yes, come with me."

Mom followed. The four men at the counter followed. The hot gossip at the hunt club was clearly going to be about a puzzling old woman who went to the sporting goods department and asked for a third of a cup of buck shot because her doll pattern called for it. In all their years of hunting, business at the bullet counter had never been held up because of a doll artist.

The associate stopped next to a Red Ryder display. She grabbed a pack of steel BBs. Mom shook it gently, noticing that she could easily pour out the BBs and measure a third of a cup. With a big grin on her face, Mom grabbed a second pack, thanked the associate and headed back to the counter to purchase her "doll-making materials."

The group of hunters gathered at the bullet counter that day had an amazing revelation. A missing bullet or two from their gun cabinets didn't necessarily mean that their wives had finally had enough. It could just be that the women had taken up doll-making.

Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, "Relative Expressions." She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is mickibare@inspiredscribe.com.