My mother swore that she would never set foot in a Walmart. She had read stories about them. In big towns and small hamlets across the land, the presence of a Walmart store killed off the “mom and pop” businesses. It griped her that Main Street USA had largely disappeared.
She also swore off Ralphs markets. Allow me to explain.
At my 35th college reunion in 2000, we were all approaching sixty, and the big topic of conversation was what to do for, and what to do with, our aging parents. Our parents were in their 80’s-plus, and we roundly discussed the blessings and the challenges of a generation of parents who were living longer than any other in history.
Just three years earlier my mom had come to live with my wife and me and our three daughters. She was ninety-three. We thought she might last another year, maybe two, but she fooled us. Through stubbornness, zest for life, and some good ole Texan Johnson genes; she almost made it to the century mark, dying just two months after her ninety-ninth birthday.
She had resisted the move, wanting instead to stay in her cozy apartment, not wanting to give up her independence. That is a common sentiment among oldsters, many of whom – like my mother Audrey — believe that getting old is a temporary condition. My mom was sure that she would regain her strength of old, but too many falls had taken their toll. She was black and blue from head to toe. After she seriously damaged her rotator cuff, she finally gave up and gave in to our pleas to make her home with us.
There were some hard adjustments for her. She was stuck with a walker, could not lift anything off the stove or out of the oven, and could no longer make her legendary potato salad. All her life she worked hard and served others. It grieved her not to feel useful anymore. So much had been taken away by old age and infirmity, that she desperately wanted to hold onto something. She decided that she would not give up her yams – a side dish she had faithfully prepared for years for our holiday family gatherings. Problem was, she could not do the yams by herself; she needed a sous chef.
Guess who?
Step One. Buy the yams. A trip to the market. I volunteered to run the errand for her, but she insisted that we go together.
But do you know the difference between a solo trip to Vons for a short list of items and a trip to Vons for a short list of items in the company of a ninety-five-year-old woman with macular degeneration? Well, it is twenty minutes vs two hours. Minimum! She had to get ready. After all, she could not leave the house without a bathroom stop, combed hair, dressy shoes, a pair of slacks, and her red wool blazer. And we couldn’t just pop in the truck. Audrey’s popping days were over.
But oh, how she loved going to the store! “A” of all, it was an outing with her son in the Dodge pickup. “B” of all, she got to ditch the walker and push the shopping cart instead; it made her feel less like a frail older woman and more like any other shopper. “C” of all, she loved to go up and down the aisles, touching everything, like a little kid. When I picked up a one- pound can of Yuban coffee off the shelf, she peppered me with questions about the prices of all the other coffee brands. This Depression Era lass was frugal to the max. When we got to the produce section, she picked over the yams, touching almost every single one, choosing by feel to get the right amount of firmness.
Step Two. Prepare the yams.
Under Mom’s careful directions, I parboiled the yams, allowed them to cool, skinned them, and sliced them into one-inch rounds. Together we arranged them in the glass baking dish. I dusted them with Audrey’s special recipe blend of brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, and pats of real butter. For the record, Audrey was mortified at the thought of little marshmallows. We covered the yams with foil and put them in the fridge overnight.
Step Three. Audrey’s outrage.
We all packed and piled into the car the next morning for the drive to my brother’s house, a 90-minute trip. We were about fifteen minutes from our destination when Audrey shouted, “STOP THE CAR. WE HAVE TO GO BACK. I FORGOT MY YAMS.”
We checked the trunk, and sure enough, no yams.
“Mom, we can’t go back. That’s a round trip of more the two hours. Let’s look for a market.”
“No market will be open on Christmas.”
We hadn’t driven more than three more blocks when lo, there was an open Ralphs right there on Foothill Boulevard in Claremont. A granddaughter accompanied her into the market. We were relieved; we would have just enough time for a yam do-over before dinner. But when she returned to the car, Audrey sat down with a bag of yams in her lap, a scowl on her face, and a “harrumph” in her voice.
“I am never shopping at Ralphs again.”
“What happened, Mom? Were they rude to you?
“I’ll tell you what happened. They make those people work on Christmas Day. Shame on them! Those workers should be home with their families. I am never shopping at Ralphs again. NEVER!”
Audrey was stubbornly true to her word. She never again darkened the door of a Walmart or a Ralphs. She wanted me to boycott them also; and out of loyalty I have largely avoided them, talking my patronage to Target and Vons instead. However, the need occasionally arises for me to visit one of her forbidden places. But I always wear a big hat, not taking the chance that my late mother will gaze downward from the heavens and recognize me … and be mad.
Tidings from Tim 