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How much is that potting soil?
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| How much is that potting soil? |
| 08.02.05 (2:45 pm) [edit] |
K-mart at the now extinct Wonderland mall in Livonia, MI is big sloppy puddle of memories for me.
The first time I was ever lost without my mommy happened there when I became mesmerized by the goldfish in the tanks in the way back of the store. As a child I didn't deal with stress very well and I coped with what was to me a natural reaction. I cried hysterically while running around the aisles between the home and garden section and the soon to be belly-up fish department. I understand now that if I had stayed still while crying hysterically, someone would have found me and helped me. Or I would have been whisked away by a big chunk of white trash in an El Camino never to be heard from again. Hey, it could happen.
The first time I was completely shocked was in that same store when my mother gave me some money and told me to go buy two small frozen Coke's, one for each of us. The secret is out, my mother never fed me. (just kidding) In the mid-seventies times were tough and my very sensible mother had raised my brother and I to eat food, not sugar.
We understood that asking for one of the candybars sold at the cash register of every grocery was futile, the answer would be no. So when my little five year old self was handed a couple of bucks to go get a treat I was both dumbfounded and delighted. It was probably one of those ridiculous "Africa-hot" summer days and the thought of walking out of the air-conditioned store to trudge across the miles long, scorching hot black top parking lot to further our torture by climbing into the oven that was our green "chiggida-baggada" Nova. Those frozen Cokes probably saved our lives.
K-mart cashiers wore awful blue smocks and had hair to match. The median age of 75 at the local store was my perception but it was the seventies and the styles then made everyone look so old. Big, hard hair, polyester enought to provide shelter from a speeding bullet and the bad lighting at K-mart flattered no one. The gnarled old lady fingers would whap away at the old fashioned cash registers. "tick-tick-tick, KACHUNKA" repeatedly until all of our goods had been tallied and the subtotal and total keys were hit, causing an earthquake of noise to errupt from the register and a tiny little piece of receipt paper to jut out of the top of the machine. My mother would write a check and hand it and her drivers license to the cashier who would then write all over the check with a pen she took from a necklace that matched the chain hanging from the sides of her enormous glasses.
As I got older, the old lady cashiers were replaced by boisterous black women who carried on conversations with one another as though the customers didn't exist. tick-tick-tick, KACHUNK, "Hey Marvette! did you see LaVonne's man come pick her up yesterday?!" tick-tick-tick,KACHUNK, "Nuh-uh, I hads to go pick up my chile from he gramma house", tick-tick-tick ad infinitum. I don't know who I loved more, the blue hairs or the black skins. I was amazed by anyone carrying on a conversation so loudly in a public place without concern for anyone overhearing and so learned to do the same thing my self. (this is now a device I use to rid myself of annoying people or unwanted advances.) I became obsessed with eavesdropping on the conversations around us as we had our goods tallied and bagged for transport home.
K-mart, with its antiquated manual checkout system was not with out its flaws. Sometimes a price sticker would fall off and the cashier would have to get a price check. A price check always meant most of the afternoon would be spent standing in line as various humans in blue smocks looked at the stickerless item, consult a clip-board with random papers hanging on it, finally shrugging their shoulders and calling another blue smock on the store's speaker system "Marphaday siso prishcex oLINE ONE PLEASE siso prishcexlineone" In order to prevent this torture my job was to find whatever item it was we were to buy and make sure it had a price tag on it. And it was exactly this that I couldn't do one day when we tried to buy a bag of potting soil. The soil was on sale that week and the slippery plastic bags cocooning it were impossible to stick price tags on. While ringing up our items the cashier came across the "priceless" soil and screamed to another cashier several lines away, "LaNeisha, how much da pahtnsole?" To this query came the answer, "HUNH?" And again, "how much da PAHtnsole?" followed by (i know the suspense is killing you) a still louder "HUNH!!?" "How much is da PahtinSOLE, the DIRT! HOW MUCH IS THE DIRT!" " oh that, it's a dollah twennynine"
And so it was and my mother's African Violets thrived in that dirt.
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posted by: newbie (reply)
post date: 08.02.05 (9:31 pm)
i can't believe i ate, i mean read, the whole thing ... i just spent the last two hours, i think, reading your blog stuff ... loved it ... love you ... looking forward to seeing you again ... a/c
posted by: themarina (reply)
post date: 08.03.05 (7:46 am)
Wow. You never seace to amaze. A great memory very well told.
posted by: lynne (reply)
post date: 08.04.05 (9:05 am)
Hahahaha. Dont you miss how in Detroit the word "damn" has two syllables. Day-am!
posted by: a/c (reply)
post date: 08.06.05 (7:30 pm)
oops, i forgot ... i needed to id who i am ... kinda new to this game ...
oh well, sorta goes with the territory/age/whatever
posted by: a.c (reply)
post date: 08.06.05 (7:31 pm)
day-em ... like that one too
posted by: jennjr (reply)
post date: 08.17.05 (11:13 am)
Wow. Great memories...You totally made me smile with this one.
I was waiting to hear about the blue light special, though. Perhaps another post? :)
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