We sit around the large table in the title office, signing papers to refinance our house. Our mortgage broker is a friend from church, and the head of the title company is a friend and parent from Jack and Margaret's old school. The last time we were all around this table together was years ago when we refinanced our old house. A lifetime ago. Before the accident. Before we changed houses in an attempt for Tim and me to put on our own oxygen masks even though we knew it would be difficult for Margaret to leave. Before our tragedy dragged these families into a dark place with us.
What light banter was there that other day?
Surely it was about our kids, all around the same age, at that point approaching tween-dom and teen-dom. Today, I'm just trying to get in and get out so I can cry in my car. I ask my friend how his new house is, and he happily tells me of his kids' friends in and out all day. It sounds so much like our past, but nothing like our present. I know every family has a story, and no one is free from hardship and despair. It does me no good to wish we could switch lives, switch families, switch futures. But oh how I wish we could just go back to that other year, that other time around the table.
Afterward, I go to the grocery store, purposely taking one of those mini carts, pissed that our food for the week will probably fit in it, 2 pathetic yogurts here, 3 lonely grapefruits there. I haven't felt this sad and angry in a while.
But then I smile broadly at an old man at the freezer case, wondering if he needs some human contact today. He is grimacing. It would be difficult not to notice his sturdy shoes, white socks, and bare legs under his trench coat. It's 30 degrees and windy outside. "Well," I tell myself, "at least I'm still putting on pants." Not that it seems right to feel better just because someone's backstory (which I've somehow spun between the ice cream and the frozen peas) could possibly be as bad as mine. And, for all I know, he's going to jump in his sports car with his 40 year old wife and head off to play racquetball in a few minutes. Perhaps I'm making his story sadder than it is. But when I look down at my dress, navy tights, and boots I think, "Getting dressed is something. You did something. You are doing something."
A few aisles over I see a mom and grandma calling out in Spanish to a child who has disappeared from view. Their voices are mildly irritated and not at all panicked. I feel it too, that calm that it will be all right, that he is just over looking at cereal or cheap racecars or the deep bin of discount DVD's. I linger until they are reunited, his hand grasped firmly in his Abuela's. I smile at his chubby little face. This makes me feel better too, that I can still rejoice in the good, in a happy ending, even though it's not ours.
I think of Margaret at school, how on just a few hours of sleep because of our late flight home from FL, she'll have to interact and learn, be surrounded by 800 people, come home and do homework, and then go to soccer in the cold. Here I am praising myself for getting dressed and buying grapefruit and she is doing 1000 more things than I am today. I'm so proud of her. And Tim at his office, playing catch-up after time away, buried under papers, using his brain on complicated equations that would baffle me. I'm proud of him, too.
I head home to clean a little, do laundry, make appointments, and play catch-up in my own way. I still feel fragile and weepy. It could be because my period started. Or it could just be a burst of grief. Or perhaps it's the emotional release of having gone on another vacation without Jack-- of mini-golf, warm sunshine, and sand under our feet-- that would have seemed impossible just a short time ago, but that we did and we enjoyed.
I don't know, but I let myself cry and be proud of myself, too.
Showing posts with label grocery shopping. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grocery shopping. Show all posts
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Thursday, July 10, 2008
It's All in My Head
At my favorite thrift store this week I saw yet another personalized wedding gift languishing on the shelves. I doubt another John and Amber, who just happened to get married on June 20, 1994, will be searching the knick-knack aisles for just such an item.
As a result, on my weekly shopping forays I’ll be subjected to their personalized vase and my mind will weave a story about its unfortunate landing on this dusty shelf. Sure, it may have just not fit in with the decor of the happy couple, but my good sense tells me that John and Amber are now in Splitsville: broken dreams, broken promises, broken home.
I think of the future they once had, dashed. I wonder about the children, the mortgage, the house with the 2-car garage. I am protective and feel like buying it, just to get it off of the shelves and away from prying eyes.
My thrift store habit already borders on the obsessive, so if I start bringing home other people’s personalized stuff, I’ll be certifiable. But what about the plain plastic frame over there with a middle-aged couple walking down the aisle—probably a second wedding? Couldn’t whoever donated it have taken the photo out first so I wouldn’t have to wonder, all day, how neither party, no matter how badly burned by love the 2nd time around, would want to keep the picture?
I have a friend who recently bought a vintage scrapbook from a junk shop. It is probably about 60 or so years old. After extensive Internet research, she managed to track down the daughter of the family in the scrapbook. She wants to reunite her with the family album and has placed a phone call, yet unanswered, to the daughter. This friend, like me, savors the story, and sees stuff as more than stuff.
Savoring (or, in my case, imagining) the story can be a burden. It makes me think of John and Amber when I should be thinking of great thrift shop deals I can score for my family. It makes me wonder which photos, dishes and furniture I should save since I serve as my family’s unofficial historian. I want my kids to be interested in, but not bogged down by, memories of the past. Our kitchen wall is decorated with the words, “The best things in life aren’t things,”and I want to exemplify that to them.
So instead of worrying about John and Amber, and the winners of countless sports trophies and tacky business awards (“Bob Parker—January’s Top Salesman!”) that line the thrift store shelves, I will try to move on. I’ll try to remember the relief these people most likely felt from cleaning up and clearing out—and that sometimes stuff is just stuff. And, when I do finally donate some of the more sentimental “treasures” I have, I’ll try not to imagine a phone call reuniting me with my stuff a few years later.
As a result, on my weekly shopping forays I’ll be subjected to their personalized vase and my mind will weave a story about its unfortunate landing on this dusty shelf. Sure, it may have just not fit in with the decor of the happy couple, but my good sense tells me that John and Amber are now in Splitsville: broken dreams, broken promises, broken home.
I think of the future they once had, dashed. I wonder about the children, the mortgage, the house with the 2-car garage. I am protective and feel like buying it, just to get it off of the shelves and away from prying eyes.
My thrift store habit already borders on the obsessive, so if I start bringing home other people’s personalized stuff, I’ll be certifiable. But what about the plain plastic frame over there with a middle-aged couple walking down the aisle—probably a second wedding? Couldn’t whoever donated it have taken the photo out first so I wouldn’t have to wonder, all day, how neither party, no matter how badly burned by love the 2nd time around, would want to keep the picture?
I have a friend who recently bought a vintage scrapbook from a junk shop. It is probably about 60 or so years old. After extensive Internet research, she managed to track down the daughter of the family in the scrapbook. She wants to reunite her with the family album and has placed a phone call, yet unanswered, to the daughter. This friend, like me, savors the story, and sees stuff as more than stuff.
Savoring (or, in my case, imagining) the story can be a burden. It makes me think of John and Amber when I should be thinking of great thrift shop deals I can score for my family. It makes me wonder which photos, dishes and furniture I should save since I serve as my family’s unofficial historian. I want my kids to be interested in, but not bogged down by, memories of the past. Our kitchen wall is decorated with the words, “The best things in life aren’t things,”and I want to exemplify that to them.
So instead of worrying about John and Amber, and the winners of countless sports trophies and tacky business awards (“Bob Parker—January’s Top Salesman!”) that line the thrift store shelves, I will try to move on. I’ll try to remember the relief these people most likely felt from cleaning up and clearing out—and that sometimes stuff is just stuff. And, when I do finally donate some of the more sentimental “treasures” I have, I’ll try not to imagine a phone call reuniting me with my stuff a few years later.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Community Theater
As I pull up to my grocery store I see Brenda, the deli clerk, smoking on the loading dock. This does not bode well for my prospects of getting my favorite sliced turkey today. Even if I start in produce and work my way around to the deli, chances are she’ll still be puffing away by the time I’m ready to check out. When I tell people in my town I go to this particular grocery store, they wonder why I put up with the long lines, surly workers, and half-empty shelves. We live in the comfort and plenty of suburbia, but occasionally my store’s shelves look more like those in a communist country when I can find neither milk nor bread.
There are many reasons I shop there.
The biggest reason is familiarity. Very little ever changes, so I know where everything is. A couple of years ago they moved the ricotta, but other than that, it seems to be the same place it was when I was a kid. I like how the store isn’t so big that I feel I’ve had a workout going from the fruit to the cereal. I have fond memories of my mom handing me a box of Fiddle Faddle, still found on the same shelf today, to eat while we shopped. We would sheepishly hand over the half-eaten box to the clerk when it was time to check out. I’m too much of a control freak to ply my kids with the same sugary snacks, but I love that memory and those conjured up by the full-sized Snickers bars still stacked near the register.
They checkers stay the same, too. There is Mr. Ed, a gentle man who has known me since I was a kid. I remember coming into the store after having been out of state for grad school and Mr. Ed asked after my mother. I had to tell him she died. We both felt pretty awkward. I found myself going to the super-store down the street for a couple of months, looking for some anonymity, but I was drawn back to Mr. Ed and my store.
He is the same clerk I talk high school basketball with, and the one who gently accepted my 4 year old’s apology when Jake stole a pack of gum. We were halfway home when I saw Jake holding it, and back to the store we went. A quick prayer of repentance in the parking lot, then in we went to seek out Mr. Ed. I have no recollection of stealing anything from the store when I was little, but I like the idea that my own mother would have dragged me back in to Mr. Ed, too.
Another clerk, Frank, is about my age. We went to rival high schools. He always thought he might like to go back to school to become a math teacher, and he wonders when I’ll go back to teaching. We talk about that sometimes. He continues to be a checker, and I show few signs of returning to my old job.
Raoul, in Dairy, has what my neighbor refers to as “bedroom eyes.” At first I thought he was coming on to me when he gazed at me with those smoldering looks, but I may have been flattering myself as more times than not I go in the store in my comfy pants, an inch of gray, and pink clog slippers. I enjoy listening as Raoul talks about the trials of being a single father to teenaged daughters. I like how our conversation goes beyond the weather or the price of milk.
My friends’ biggest complaint is the slow service and the length of the lines. I have never seen more than 3 of the 10 check stands open. I don’t mind. This wait time lets me read Us Weekly and other magazines I’d never buy. If I choose the right line, I can get a good dose of celebrity fluff by the time my cart reaches the check stand. This is also a good chance to listen to the bickering and banter of the staff. Managers come and go here, but the checkers stay and get on each other’s nerves.
I used to tell myself that my store, although smaller and dumpier than the competition, had lower prices, but my friend David says it’s not so. He and his wife did a comparison between the two stores in town, and mine came up the price loser. Maybe it’s that LOSER image that draws me to it anyway.
When we had a hurricane about 4 years ago, many homes and businesses lost power for days. I drove down the main street in our town and saw that my store had no power, but the super-store was gleaming and fully operational. I stopped in my store to buy something, anything, to show my support. Canned corn in hand, I walked past row upon row of open freezers, filled with thawing pizzas and Lean Cuisines that would eventually be tossed in the trash. That sealed it for me. Maybe my store should have had a better plan, a back-up generator for instance, but what underdog would?
I’m just so loyal. I want my store to succeed, and I’m willing to go without turkey if need be. Perhaps demanding a higher level of service would help it succeed, but I’ve never been much into tough love. Besides, I ask myself, should we always be able to get what we want?
There are many reasons I shop there.
The biggest reason is familiarity. Very little ever changes, so I know where everything is. A couple of years ago they moved the ricotta, but other than that, it seems to be the same place it was when I was a kid. I like how the store isn’t so big that I feel I’ve had a workout going from the fruit to the cereal. I have fond memories of my mom handing me a box of Fiddle Faddle, still found on the same shelf today, to eat while we shopped. We would sheepishly hand over the half-eaten box to the clerk when it was time to check out. I’m too much of a control freak to ply my kids with the same sugary snacks, but I love that memory and those conjured up by the full-sized Snickers bars still stacked near the register.
They checkers stay the same, too. There is Mr. Ed, a gentle man who has known me since I was a kid. I remember coming into the store after having been out of state for grad school and Mr. Ed asked after my mother. I had to tell him she died. We both felt pretty awkward. I found myself going to the super-store down the street for a couple of months, looking for some anonymity, but I was drawn back to Mr. Ed and my store.
He is the same clerk I talk high school basketball with, and the one who gently accepted my 4 year old’s apology when Jake stole a pack of gum. We were halfway home when I saw Jake holding it, and back to the store we went. A quick prayer of repentance in the parking lot, then in we went to seek out Mr. Ed. I have no recollection of stealing anything from the store when I was little, but I like the idea that my own mother would have dragged me back in to Mr. Ed, too.
Another clerk, Frank, is about my age. We went to rival high schools. He always thought he might like to go back to school to become a math teacher, and he wonders when I’ll go back to teaching. We talk about that sometimes. He continues to be a checker, and I show few signs of returning to my old job.
Raoul, in Dairy, has what my neighbor refers to as “bedroom eyes.” At first I thought he was coming on to me when he gazed at me with those smoldering looks, but I may have been flattering myself as more times than not I go in the store in my comfy pants, an inch of gray, and pink clog slippers. I enjoy listening as Raoul talks about the trials of being a single father to teenaged daughters. I like how our conversation goes beyond the weather or the price of milk.
My friends’ biggest complaint is the slow service and the length of the lines. I have never seen more than 3 of the 10 check stands open. I don’t mind. This wait time lets me read Us Weekly and other magazines I’d never buy. If I choose the right line, I can get a good dose of celebrity fluff by the time my cart reaches the check stand. This is also a good chance to listen to the bickering and banter of the staff. Managers come and go here, but the checkers stay and get on each other’s nerves.
I used to tell myself that my store, although smaller and dumpier than the competition, had lower prices, but my friend David says it’s not so. He and his wife did a comparison between the two stores in town, and mine came up the price loser. Maybe it’s that LOSER image that draws me to it anyway.
When we had a hurricane about 4 years ago, many homes and businesses lost power for days. I drove down the main street in our town and saw that my store had no power, but the super-store was gleaming and fully operational. I stopped in my store to buy something, anything, to show my support. Canned corn in hand, I walked past row upon row of open freezers, filled with thawing pizzas and Lean Cuisines that would eventually be tossed in the trash. That sealed it for me. Maybe my store should have had a better plan, a back-up generator for instance, but what underdog would?
I’m just so loyal. I want my store to succeed, and I’m willing to go without turkey if need be. Perhaps demanding a higher level of service would help it succeed, but I’ve never been much into tough love. Besides, I ask myself, should we always be able to get what we want?
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