Grocery Shopping

 Originally Written Between 2016-2017               

The kitchen was hot.  But, not because something was baking in the oven or there were lots of steaming pots on the stove.  It was hot because it was August and the whole house was hot.  No cool breeze coming in through the open windows.  Just a humid, heavy feeling that took your breath away when you stepped outdoors.

 

The year?  1967.  We were living in a big old house on the corner of Ashland Avenue and Fairview in St. Paul.  Our little household consisted of Norm, me, one-year old toddler Michael, and my father-in-law, Clarence.

 

We had one car that Norm used to drive to work.  He was in a car pool so I had certain days that I knew I could make doctor appointments, do errands, and shop for groceries.  I didn’t like to shop on Saturdays because, frankly, I am not a patient person that likes to stand in lines.  Besides, I always…. And I mean ALWAYS, pick the longest line.  I count the people ahead of me.  I count the people in the lanes to my right and to my left.  I devise a strategic plan.  The carts aren’t nearly as full as mine in aisle 5.  I get in line.  Wouldn’t you know it.  Mrs. “oh, I knew I had a coupon for that orange juice in here somewhere” somehow needs to save 5 cents and starts digging in her purse.  After a minute of looking, she acts like a martyr and says, “oh well, it’s only 5 cents” and then pays the clerk.  In that timeframe, two shoppers in the lanes next to me have leaped ahead of me and are out the door, pushing their carts.

 

And – back in those days, grocery and other stores were closed on Sundays.  I think it was called the Blue Law or something like that.  People were expected to wake up on Sunday, go to church, go home and spend the day with family.  This was a day of rest.  No unnecessary work was to be done.

 

Well, the person who made up that rule was not a wife or a mother.  Even though it was a Sunday, no one gave up eating three meals a day!  And in those days, -- at least in the McGraw household – the wife and mother and daughter-in-law was the chief cook and bottle washer.

 

Not that I complained.  This was the role I had chosen.  I liked being a wife.  I loved being a mom.  Daughter-in-law?  Not so much.  Oh, Clarence was a wonderful man and he was pleasant enough.  I just didn’t know how to act around him.  Norm was gone all day and Clarence spent most of his time in his room or took walks around the block on his crutches.  You see, he had two unsuccessful hip replacements and couldn’t get around very well.  He tried to help out by making his own breakfast (oatmeal with “just the right amount of brown sugar on top”).  He’d try to bring his dishes to the sink but that was kind of hard while using a crutch. 

 

Anyway, I digress.  I just wanted to paint the picture of poor little ol’ Mary, stuck in her house with a toddler, a father-in-law, and no air conditioning and having to come up with three meals a day to feed everyone.  Poor me.  Well, cold cereal in the morning.  Lunch was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and cold fruit and supper was a BLT with potato chips and ice cream for dessert.  You can tell I didn’t have much imagination when it was too hot to even think!

 

But, really, life was good.  I did my grocery shopping during the week because I didn’t like the crowds on Saturday.  That meant I had to take Michael with me.  You see, grocery stores were not open during the evening – or 24 hours a day like they are in today’s world.  If they were open in the evening, you can be sure that I would have gone shopping and left Michael with Norm!

 

In 1967, a dozen eggs cost 53 cents, a pound of hamburger was 29 cents, a candy bar was 5 cents, and a loaf of bread was 22 cents.  Ten little jars of Michael’s Heinz baby food cost a $1.  

 

I remember Norm coming home from work one day and I was very upset.  You see, we used the “envelope method” of budgeting.  When Norm would cash his paycheck, we would divide up the money into mortgage payment, electricity, gas, food, clothes, and other categories and place the cash in envelopes.  I can’t remember where we hid the envelopes – probably some really safe place like Norm’s underwear drawer.

 

Anyway, Norm came home from work.  It was a hot day, probably.  I stood up straight and tall in front of him, stamped my foot, and said the following:  “I need a raise for food.  I just cannot feed a family of four with $12.50 a week any more!  I need $15.00.”

 

I’m not sure how we manipulated our envelopes to have Peter help Paul – but I got my raise.  Life was better.  Ah – the good ol’ days!