Grocery shopping with Mother was a thrilling excursion. Until after I was three, Mother bought on credit at Darnell’s Store, the only store in our little neighborhood. Housewives danced around out of Old Man Darnell’s reach while Mrs. Darnell scowled from behind the counter. Her mean little Pekingnese ran out nipping at us every time we stepped in the store, seeming to prefer the tender legs of toddlers, while Mrs. Darnell snapped that he didn’t bite, even after he drew blood. Mrs Darnell’s bald spot was set off spectacularly by her frizzy-dyed black hair. Mrs. Darnell and that hateful little dog will always be burned in my mind as a witch and her familiar. Old Man Darnell always had a big brown stogie hanging out of his mouth, which I was convinced was a turd. Any urge to smoke died then and there. I could never ask Mother about the cigar since I couldn’t phrase my question without forbidden words. I would have had to substitute gee-gee for the much-admired doo-doo word my cousins tossed about so freely. Even, at three and a half, knew it wouldn’t do to ask why Old Man Darnell always had a piece of gee gee in his mouth.
Eventually, Mother learned to drive, freeing her from Darnell’s Store. She insisted on driving into Springhill, the nearest town with an A & P and a Piggly Wiggly. She had to agree not to spend more than twelve dollars a week, since “money didn’t grow on trees,” nor were we a rich two-car family. Unless Daddy caught a ride to work, on grocery day, Mother had to take him to work, come back home till the business day started, Attend to her business, then pick him up at the end of his shift. That was eighty miles of driving, not including in-town driving, all this in company of at least two and maybe three small children if Phyllis were not in school. A timid driver, Mother never went above twenty-five miles per hour and often pulled on the shoulder if she saw a car approaching. First we had to drive by Piggly Wiggly where Mother parked to read all the specials posted on on butcher paper in the windows. With that money-saving information firmly imbedded in her mind, off we headed to the A&P where her genius proved itself.
Before entering, Mother powdered her nose, put on fresh lipstick, combed her hair, then turned her attention to us. In the days before she “had so many children, she didn’t know what to do,” we were all dressed up. Mother was sure to remark later who she saw who “went to town without lipstick.” We’d be eating whatever was ten-cans-for-a-dollar, reduced for quick sale, or was on special that week. We always got a box of Animal Crackers to munch in the cart as Mother inspected every can, potato, and chicken for the best buy. When we’d start badgering her for cookies, candy, and cereal with prizes, she’d say, “Don’t start! Just don’t start!” While Mother was critiquing the chickens, I remember poking my finger through the cellophane into the hambones. I don’t think she ever caught me. No Kellogg’s Cornflakes for us. We got Sunnyfield, the store brand. Long after the Animal Crackers were gone, Mother finally let the bag boy load her groceries in the trunk. He needn’t expect a tip. If she had another nickel, it was going for the specials at Piggly Wiggly.
Not long before I started school, Mother unwittingly discovered a way to ensure good behavior the whole time we were in town. She’d say, “remind me to take you by the Health Unit to get a polio shot.” I was perfect till we passed the outskirts of town.
Onward to Piggly Wiggly, where she’d grab up their specials. Eventually, we’d head home with bags and bags of groceries: twenty-five pounds of flour, five pounds of dried pinto beans, a three pound can of shortening, twenty- five pounds of potatoes, five pounds of meal, three pounds of coffee, powdered milk, since it was cheaper. It seemed like it took a dozen trips to drag all those paper bags in. Invariably, a couple would break and have us chasing canned vegetables. She usually bought chicken, since that was the cheapest meat, but sometimes there’d be hamburger, roast or fish.
When I go to the grocery store with Mother now, I don’t get Animal Crackers, though I could if I wanted to. The other day were were headed into the grocery store when Mother laughed and said “Linda, will you buy me……?”
She does this as a joke every time we go in a store, now. As always, I answer back, just like she always did when I was a kid, “don’t start! Just don’t you start!” This particular day, an infuriated elderly gentleman heard the exchange, and inferred I was being unkind. I could have lost an eye before we made our explanations. It’s good to pay attention to what going on around you before opening your mouth.
Miss Laura Mae’s stories always held my interest, though they certainly weren’t intended for my ears.
That wasn’t the worst of Grandma’s Goodwill gifts. When I was in the eighth grade and anxious to fit in, she hit the mother lode and stopped by Goodwill just after Shirley Temple cleaned out her closet. Grandma sent me several party dresses. Mother was overjoyed. They were exquisite and probably just what she had wanted twenty years earlier. Mother held up the worst of the worst, and reminded me, just in case I had gone into a coma and forgotten, I had a band concert coming up and had to have a new dress. I had been praying for a miracle, a box pleated wool skirt with a pullover sweater. Hope died. She held up a disaster in sheer lavender with a wide satin cummerbund. Mother made me try it on right then. It was so sheer, my ugly cotton slip, which Grandma had thoughtfully provided earlier, was perfectly showcased. (All the other girls had lacy nylon ones) It looked like a horrible joke. Better yet, its low cut back showcased off my pimply back perfectly. 
However, as sheer as it was, a high back wouldn’t have hidden anything. It was a good three inches too long. Mother explained it was tea-length, just what I needed in a fancy dress, and cut me off when I suggested hemming it. It would ruin all that beautiful embroidery around the tail of the skirt. I was heartsick. “Mother, I can’t wear this. It’s embarrassing. Nobody wears stuff like this!”
We had a tight schedule when our kids were in school. By this, I don’t mean we scurried from one activity to another getting our kids to lessons and sports practices after school and on weekends. Bud and I were juggling just to get them fed, dressed, and to the bus stop in the mornings. We were both taking call at work, so it was a big job making sure one of us was there when they got home, got them started on homework, got dinner, and their baths. Throw in a few loads of laundry, a fever or sick child and it was sure to be exciting. Sometimes I felt overloaded.
Billy was about two and a half years old, Daddy and Mother stopped by the A &W Rootbeer Drive-In for a treat after supper one night, way back when the brought those frosty mugs out to the car, no to-go orders. You had to finish your Rootbeer before leaving. We’d already had dinner, so we knew we were getting Rootbeer. A fellow who pulled up next to us ordered a hotdog. In the heat of the July evening, everyone had their car windows down. Billy was always ready to eat! Naturally, when he saw the guy’s hotdog, he wanted one, too. Mother reminded him he’d already eaten and he’d only be getting rootbeer. As the young man raised his hotdog to chomp down, Billy called out, “I wanna bite!”
Surprised, the fellow looked over to see a small boy on his mother’s lap, leaning out a car window, begging for a bit. Quickly, he tried to resume his meal. Again, “I wanna bite!” It’s really hard to shut a hotdog hungry little kid up, though Mother tried. I know we would have left if we hadn’t still had Rootbeer to finish and mugs for pickup. After trying a couple more times to eat despite Billy’s plaintive begging, he cranked his car and left.
crime, they just opened the car doors and all Hell broke loose. Exhausted from defending themselves and the babies on the ride over, it was every man for himself. God help anybody in the way.
Nutsrok 