The Grocery
Dad’s life as a grocer meant Mom had some involvement, too. Even as a young child, I was aware that Dad worked in a grocery. Once, when I was very young, he brought home miniature boxes of various products and gave them to me to play with. I can remember the tiny boxes of cereal, printed just like the full-sized ones, and how much fun I had “playing grocer”.
There are things we all remember that are insignificant in the greater view and yet affected us greatly. Once when I was in elementary school – fifth grade it seems to me – Dad showed up after lunch with a Planter’s peanut pen. He proudly gave me the pen with Mr. Peanut on the end. How I loved that gift. I suppose it was a promotion from a salesman but I was thrilled that he gave it to me, even mores so that he delivered it personally.
The grocery was within walking distance of the school and Dad knew many of the teachers and students. He was also a close friend of the principal. For a grown man to walk into an elementary school nowadays would result in the police being called. But those were still innocent times, and rightly so.
After school, it seems every child headed first to the grocery store and loaded up on candy. In the 1950’s single pieces of gum were still to be had for a penny and even full-size candy bars were no more than a dime. I’d stop, too, of course, just to see Dad. Stuck in my mind is the one time he bought me a full-size Three Musketeer bar. How could I be so lucky?
I enjoyed the grocery store – and I would work there through my high school and college years – but it was as a child when the place contained real magic and not just work. A freezer lay along one wall, open its entire length on top, and if I hoisted myself up, so that my nose hovered above the frozen foods, the cold sensation of breathing deeply was beyond anything found anywhere else.
I liked the walk-in coolers, too. In the back room were two of them. One held mostly dairy goods, the other frozen foods. Walking in either and closing the door was a magical trip to the Arctic. Even though I knew enough to check that the door could not be locked and I could not be trapped. I had enough warnings about refrigerators from my grandmother.
I remember those rare vacations when we first returned and Dad felt compelled to check out the store on the Sunday before he returned to work. Usually the shelves that Dad managed had not been “pulled” (all product pulled to the front and evened out), nor stocked, and Dad’s final day of vacation was too often spent working.
Mom, too, would spend her time getting things back into order. I could never understand why he cared. I figured a vacation was time away from such boring projects and if the place was a mess, so be it. If Dad had a fault, it was that he cared too much.
Dad had a work ethic that both my brother and I have tried to live up to, Bob has succeeded to a much greater degree than I. Even when he was sick with a cold or the flu, Dad went to work. Those few times when he stayed home, we knew he was incredibly ill and could barely stand. And yet the next day he’d almost certainly be back at work, sick or not.
Mom was the same with housework. She seldom missed her usual schedule. There were very few times when I got up for breakfast and found nothing prepared. Even if she was sick, she’d get breakfast and then go back to bed.
Both my brother and I were allowed to be sick and lounge about till we recovered. But once well we were expected to get back to the grind. There was no taking advantage of the situation.
Dad was mainly a butcher (though later a vegetarian for the final three decades of his life) but he was also the jack-of-all-trades at the grocery. He managed the produce section, stocked shelves in all areas, ran the cash register when they were busy and managed the money. He was also their sign maker. He could take a grease pen and make exceptional signs that were taped to the large front windows. Even when commercial signs became available, he made many signs inside the store.
I remember this is one place where his OCD really fired. I suppose it was because he never wanted to make a mistake. But he’d count and recount money and if he closed the store, he’d turn the key in the door again and again to make sure it had locked. Sometimes he’d even walk back and do it again.
When his arthritis was peaking and ravaging his joints, the grocery where he spent most of his working years closed. The owner retired. Dad quickly found a job at another grocery ten miles away and he picked up where he left off, barely skipping a beat. Again he was a butcher.
I sometimes wonder why Dad never found a better job? Why not something with fewer hours, higher pay, easier on the body? I think the answer was that he felt secure bringing home a steady paycheck; even if not large it was sufficient. What was the need for more when enough felt satisfactory?
Once he considered a job at a grocery in Bear Lake. At least he was offered a job and told us about it. But neither Dad nor Mom could pick up and move, leaving family behind. Dad said he could not leave his parents behind. Mom said she could not leave her sister.
And so any advancement became impossible. The status quo was too satisfactory if not comfortable. The same went for changing jobs. What if it didn’t work out? What if he were laid off? They had a family to take care of and that was paramount.
How can I then fault what I saw in those years as stagnation, a lack of gumption? The house was always warm in winter. We never lacked something good to eat. We were comfortable. We had each other. That was all we needed.
© 2021 William G Schmidt
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