Another Saturday, another grocery store. Even though it’s just a few dozen yards from our “regular” supermarket, I welcome the change of atmosphere. There’s a smaller crowd at Raley’s (most likely because it’s more expensive;) the insistent, perky background music is set to a lower volume, and the staff seems more genuine—they’re not ordered to smile at all the customers and ask us how we’re doing today, as are the employees at Safeway.
We are at Raley’s this time because of its proximity to Ross Dress for Less, where my parents asked to be taken first. Our departure from the normal routine feels drearily predictable. My father has been told that he can buy a belated Mother’s Day gift for my stepmother; she’s written down the exact items, style and colors that she wants and gives my dad the note, along with cash to make the purchases. While there, she decides she’ll buy a Father’s Day present for him; after careful questioning, she opts to get him a new belt and some underwear. To make things simpler, she also chooses her own clothes.
While waiting for Jeannie to try things on, my dad and I stand silently amid the racks and bustling shoppers. I ask how he’s doing and he shrugs, says “Oh, the usual.” It’s hard to get much more out of him. “Man of few words,” I joke. He offers something more: “She always asks me what I’m thinking…sometimes I’m not thinking anything.” He pauses. “And other times I don’t want to tell her what I’m thinking because she won’t like it.”
Purchases made, we head across the parking lot to begin the grocery shopping. Notwithstanding the challenge of a different floor plan, we locate the same products they buy every week. The only moment of excitement occurs in the vegetable aisle, when Jeannie insists on getting a bell pepper, over my father’s objections. “You still have some from before,” he says. “It’s almost gone,” she counters. “We just used some the other night.” My dad speaks up, “Just don’t give any to me.”
Jeannie knows my father hates bell peppers but she uses them in her cooking regardless. Whatever she likes, she prepares, and vice versa. She loathes potatoes, even though he enjoys them—so of course, they’re never served. I asked once why she couldn’t just pop a single potato in the microwave for my dad, and she moaned, “It takes so long to stand there, scrubbing potatoes, I just can’t do it anymore.”
Nearly an hour later, and we’re at the checkout. And something remarkable happens, at the end of a mundane shopping trip. A burly middle-aged man walks up to me, smiles. “Your parents?” he asks. I nod. He smiles again and says, “I’ve been watching you with them. My dad’s about the same age, and…” He struggles to finish. Finally he taps his chest lightly, looks me in the eye and says, “You’re doing a good thing.” Or maybe he doesn’t actually say the words and I understand what he’s thinking. Either way, I whisper, “Thank you,” as we turn to leave.
It feels good, getting that kind of validation from a stranger. Most of the time, even when my parents tell me how much they appreciate my help, I still focus on the inconvenience, feeling taken for granted. This guy could have just smiled to himself without saying anything, and for me it would have been just another day at the supermarket…but this day I plan on remembering.
