In 2003, Ma had a stroke. Dad was her full time caregiver until he he had a car accident that totaled the car. So in 2006, I became their chauffeur among other jobs.
At the time, to deal with the stress of running two households and working, I kept a blog entitled CJ's Whine and Cheeze. Egged on by some friends who enjoyed the first read through, you'll see your part when it comes by.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
The Toonerville Trolley
Himself called to me as I was dumping my tiny saddlebag on the butler table. “How were the Weebles?”
I groaned.
“Do you need an aspirin?”
“No, I took some before I left the house this morning.”
“Need to blog?”
“Boy howdy, do I ever!”
He chuckled sympathetically. “What happened?”
After I dropped the Eldest off at work, I made good time getting to the Weebles. There wasn’t much traffic on The Pike (I-90). They finally finished (after 5 years!) the bridge reconstruction by the old Carling Brewery. Got to the Weebles, in 35 minutes without speeding! Got them loaded in the wagon, and we headed to Mahket Basket.
Course, it poured buckets on Monday, the day social security check funds were available, so all the Weebles in Middlesex county were shopping at Market Basket. There were no handicap spaces available. I off loaded the Weebles in front of the store and parked the car.
When I got into the store, Dad was feeding cans into the can return machine. Ahead, I saw people jumping out of the way so knew Ma had headed towards Dairy. As I got there, Ma was lifting 12 packs of root beer and ginger ale into her cart.
“Just wait a minute wait for him! Let him put the soda in his cart. This basket isn’t big enough.”
Dad shows up with a carriage and the two off us offload the soda. We’re down to the last pack. (3 root beer, 3 ginger ale) when Ma suddenly decided to take off too look at the special on shredded mozzarella cheese.
I yelled at her as I’m the one hanging onto a carton of ginger ale and the side of the scooter basket.
Finally, everyone was settled and heading in the right direction. Ma calling for this item and that item over her shoulder and me chucking items into her basket as I trotted along. Once in a while she was forced to stop and wait because some poor Weeble lady debating the fine points of sour cream or cottage cheese.
“Oh, lady! Hurry up!” Ma mumbles rather loudly.
I thought of the traffic jam Ma will cause when she has to sain all the meat. Tit for tat in my not so humble opinion.
We passed the fish market, which didn't smell as bad as it has in the past. Either that, or I’ve become immune to the smell. We arrived in the meat department and the ritual of the Monthly Blessing of the Meat begins.
Ma pointed and I leaned over the counter, grabbed a candidate, and passed the package to Ma. She poked, prodded, stared at the meat, passed the package back. Occasionally, she placed the blessed meat into her basket, and we repeated the ritual down the miles of refrigerated meat cases.
In front of the roasts, a Weeble gentleman turns to speak to us. “Beef is $6..99 a pound! Can you believe that?”
Now, I don’t do the grocery shopping. I wouldn’t know good prices from high. I can tell by the inflection of his voice he must be shocked with the price so I respond by dropping my jaw into a wordless “Oh” and widening my eyes.
He seemed pleased by my reaction. “I used to be a butcher. Top to bottom, beef has the same nutritional value. Doesn’t matter whether you are buying filet mignon or the hoof. You tell your sister over there.”
Now, I wasn’t sure if he was trying to be gallant and complimentary to Ma or to intentionally insult me. I held my tongue.
“Y’know, my wife says I talk to all the women, but I only talk to the pretty ones.”
I chuckled and realized he must be like Dad, married to a shrew (God bless Ma) and had to chat with strangers to pass a pleasant moment or receive validation. I put on my best smile, and we continued our separate ways.
Ma had accosted one of the meat managers and asked for a particular cut of meat. He went through the swinging doors and returned with a half dozen packages. He carefully placed them in the meat case.
I selected a likely candidate and presented it to Ma for the ritual blessing until she found one she was well pleased with.
The meat manager was stocking the roast chicken bin.
“The meat’s all blessed and kosher,” I told him as I passed by.
He chuckled.
In produce, I noticed several adult children helping Weeble parents. We sounded like a herd of barnyard kids. “Maaaah, do you want the plum tomatoes or the Big Boys?” “Maaaaah, are these carrots ok?” Maaaaah. 🐐
Ma fingered the plum tomatoes. Her eye caught the 99 cent per pound over the Big Boys and one of the plums suicided to the floor and rolled under the counter.
I looked around, but no one noticed the sacrifice the little tomato made.
Ma wanted two pounds of the Big Boys. As I’m stuffing tomatoes into the plastic bag, I mouthed, “Don’t get the biggest ones. Take the smallest you can find.”
Around and around produce we went. Ma exclaimed over the high prices. There were sympathetic replies from other Weebles across the department.
Dad finally caught up to us, his basket amazingly laden with goods. Cereal, toilet paper, paper towels.
“Her Royal Heiney has a desire for prune juice,” I told him and sent him on a quest to the other side of the store from whence he came.
Ma zipped over to the bakery. She wanted a loaf of French bread. Some loaves had been put out that were warm and fragrant.
Another display captured Ma’s attention, and the old lady caromed off a table laden with pies. One pie box got caught by the backrest of her scooter. She did not stop but hit the accelerator and the pie box crumpled, and the tin pie pan curled up slightly.
We have a brand of commercial pies called ‘Table Talk’. This pie should be labeled ‘Table Gag’. I wonder how long before it appeared on the bargain table.
Dad had witnessed the pie fiasco and sang his own version of the “She’s Stupid” song.
Finally shopping was finished in record 2 hours. I directed the Weebles to a checkout line and left to troll the parking lot for a handicap space. No handicap spaces were available, but one next to a handicap slot miraculously opened up.
The Weelbes came out. Ma was toddling and pushing a carriage. Usually, she zipped across the parking lot on the scooter, neither looking right nor left for on coming traffic. I wondered why the change of routine. She hit an incline and the carriage slowly rolled forward with Ma wobbling behind. I’m reminded of a little toy I used to have. Donald Duck had a wheel barrow. If you put Donald with his wheel barrow on an incline, he would shuffle and sway his way down the track. Ma looked just like that.
I grabbed the carriage and Ma and we slowly made our way to the car. I tucked her hand into the crook of my arm for support and carefully guided her to the front seat. I’m struck by the idea of our role reversals. She is small and frail. How many times did she take my hand and guide my shaky steps when I was a toddler?
Groceries and Weebles finally loadeded into the car. I headed for the Weebledom. One quarter a mile away from Mahket Basket, Ma asked, “Would your husband be able to do me a favor later today?”
“What do you need?” I’m thinking she wanted their postage stamp of a lawn mowed.
“I need toilet paper, paper towels and Tide.” Her tone is wheedling, pathetic, and at the same time manipulative.
“What the ^#$@?” I shout in tongues. “Dad had toilet paper in his carriage.”
“I made him put them back. They were too high priced. If there’s time, you could take me to Donlan’s and that other place.”
“Why the %$@#$@ didn’t you just buy them at Mahket Basket.” My voice rose to a dangerous level. I felt a pain form behind my left eye and had the fleeting thought to slam the car into the nearest phone pole.
“He wanted $9.99. Brooks has it for $6.99. I save $3 dollars!” she says smugly.
“You save money? You? What about me? Gas is $3.00 a gallon. I’ll burn one getting you to Brooks. There’s the $9.99 you tell me where the savings is.”
She folded her arms across her chest and began shouting "I know what I’m talking about."
Fine!
I’m steamed. Yes, go ahead, I can hear you laughing your ass off! “Better you than me!” I can hear you. I should have just driven them home, but instead, cut across three towns to get over to Donlan’s and Brooks. Donlan’s for a jumbo pack of paper towels and Brook’s for toilet paper and Tide.
“Joe, what would be the best way for her to go?”
“I’m going the best way!” I roar. “Sit back, shut up, and enjoy the ride.”
I hear “You go, girl!” from the back seat.
I’m not very familiar with the area. It’s changed a lot in the nearly 22 years I’ve been married, but I find Donlan’s and pulled into their parking lot. “Where’s this other store?”
“Across the street.” She is fumbling for blank checks.
Across the street is an Einstein bagel store. I’m pretty sure they don’t carry Tide and toilet paper there. Maybe they’ve come up with a new go together and slogan. ‘Let our hole take care of your hole.’
Dad pointed to another building just opposite Donlan’s , “That’s Brook’s”.
Fine.
“You go in Brook’s and I go in Donlan’s otherwise we’ll be hear all %@#%@#$ day!”
“What am I going to get in Brook’s?”
“Toilet paper and Tide!” Ma shouted at him.
I’m fuming as I headed into the store. “Driving the #$@!@# Toonerville Trolley!” I really loathe grocery shopping.
Back at Weebledom as I helped Dad unload the groceries I told him. “You better warn her this is the last time we go all over creation for one item here and one item there. It won’t happen again.
He’s sympathetic, but I know his hands are tied.
I burn rubber out of the driveway. I gave a primal scream at the end of their street.. I headed back to The Pike, one hand on the horn and one hand out the window. I felt the tension ease as I cross under I-495, the line of demarcation between Civilization and The Land of Here There Be Dragons.
“Y’know, Kid,” I told Himself as I wound down my tale. “The idea of moving to some Godforsaken place like Nebraska is starting to look appealing. Might have to go online to start job hunting for you. They must have one community college that needs a chemistry professor. Maybe you could work for some company that refines ethanol from corn. That’s about all they have out there anyway.”
“Your day could have been worse. You might have had to travel to Millis to pick up a pair of pinking shears because they were on sale like my mother wanted. Remember?”
“I think I’ll have that aspirin, now.”
By the way, may I direct your attention to the map. Notice the nice Stop and Shop grocery store just two miles from the Weebles house? Also Roche Bros. and Donlan's. One stop, one store. Sounds like a good mantra for me.
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