c. 2025 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(9-25)
Experts in studying human evolution think that the pace of life has accelerated for those of us in the first quarter of this 21st Century. And while I cannot boast any particular qualifications in debating the accuracy of that conclusion, it does seem reasonable. At least when viewed through a lens of retirement and willful obscurity. Though in personal terms, I have more trouble keeping track of my days than anything else.
The modern convenience of a cell phone guarantees that I am on-schedule, no matter what.
After a career dealing with the public in a management capacity, I now find myself languishing in irrelevance. My days are all very similar, except when trips outside of the rural neighborhood are necessary because of doctor visits, or procuring foodstuffs. It is curious to realize that I have reached a point in my journey where going to the store to buy chicken wings, brats, salad, and beer, is now a social exercise. Much like having a picnic lunch, taking in a concert, or seeing a feature film might have been, in days of yore.
Because I live in a small township, south of its official center, shopping visits are most easily accomplished by driving north, along Route 534, until I reach the City of Geneva. This point on the map is, for all purposes, my home community. It is where friends and good neighbors reside. Where memories of all sorts still linger a potent ether of recollection. And where I feel most comfortable in getting around to load my cart.
An Amigo, electric shopper makes it all possible.
At the Giant Eagle on South Broadway, I used to park my pickup truck in a convenient spot out of the traffic pattern, and walk to the building casually. Yet now, in a condition of limited mobility and endurance, that paradigm has flipped. Instead of creeping toward the outer boundaries of their commercial lot, I find myself right at the heart of everything. In a parking space close at hand, marked for handicapped patrons. From there, I am able to make the short trek from my small SUV to the front doors. A jaunt undertaken with two canes for support, and a measure of confidence.
Though the business itself is always friendly, inviting, and well-stocked, each visit seems to take on a unique character, depending on the weather, time of day, and such. I often encounter familiar faces, which tempt me to spend more time conversing than expending portions of my fixed income. But just as often, new voices resound as I am rolling through the aisles. One woman happened to have a sweatshirt that carried the pattern of a Harley-Davidson ring I had worn for several years. Another made a segue from commenting on marked-down meat products, to confessing that she had lost her beloved husband in recent times. A revelation that touched my heart. A fellow with a baseball cap and thick glasses noted Genesee beer in my wheeled basket, and offered details of his home collection, related to the New York brand. One with signs, brochures, and tchotchkes of all sorts in evidence. Once, I was even accosted at the registers by a Vietnam veteran who wanted to help with getting my consumables to the parking area. He pondered that I was dressed in camo duds, with long, shaggy hair and a gray beard. “Did you serve, sir?” he asked. I had to answer in the negative, as a matter of course. But told him about how I had once been inspired by enlisted soldiers like himself. Their sacrifice, amid the cultural turmoil of America in that era, literally shaped my consciousness forever.
During yonder days, I had to discipline myself when engaging in such polite banter. Yet as an older, sidelined citizen, I have found a level of freedom never before attained. I am privileged to simply look, listen, and then comment as I choose. Sometimes this carefree strategy produces grins or gasps of amusement. And otherwise, my breathy observations do occasionally fall flat. Not everyone wishes to entertain such candor. Still, I keep in motion, physically and emotionally. I believe it matters to be present in the moment.
I am no longer shy about being seen and heard.
My purpose in trolling the shelves and cases at our little big bird is obvious, when considered from the standpoint of keeping properly fed and hydrated. But it also yields a game-time mindset, one that is competitive from week to week. I always look for one-off bargains, and specifically, for those yellow stickers that indicate extra savings on an instant basis. Though the Marc’s discount chain might be known for its claim of ‘fun for your money,’ I find more satisfaction in perusing the goods at this local food emporium.
When I hit upon a score of consequence, there is a quickening in my pulse. A desire to spike the football in a metaphorical end zone. Or to flip the bat at home plate, and point toward the stands with glee.
None of this could be accomplished without my downsized, AWD rig, a Ford Escape now older than some of the employees. At first, upon acquiring this vehicle, I felt somewhat ashamed to no longer be at the wheel of a tall, husky pickup with V-8 power. Yet having learned to pilot the Amigo carts with skill, inside this familiar environment, I then realized that it could also facilitate getting my purchased items outside, and into the back space of my little hauler. With maneuvers to get turned around being easy to make, even in crowded conditions.
My only failing is occasionally forgetting which direction to tug at the control lever, when behind the rear bumper. So, there is a telltale, white scratch in the black finish, on one corner.
Most recently, a Latino customer saw me perform this unintended maneuver and exclaimed “Ayyyy!” before nodding his head with understanding, and asking if I might now surrender the cart for his wife. Something I did cheerfully, though red-faced by my own glaring goof-up in full view of him, God, and everyone.
One seasoned associate from the past used to pat me upon the shoulder, during work shifts, and wisely opine, “Tomorrow is another day, Rod! Don’t get too full of yourself, or too down about things. It’ll all start over again in the morning!”
His advice had come years before the Bill Murray film, ‘Groundhog Day.’ But it was a pearl of knowledge I always kept in mind. Particularly when looking for unexpected treasures at my favorite supermarket, in Geneva.
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