The Village Squire, 1981-05, Page 13Six Achers
After the vagaries of shopping in St.
John's, Newfoundland in the late fifties,
and the ups and downs of purchasing
life's necessities in Fairyland on the
Rideau for over a decade, dealing with
the business people of rural southwestern
Dntario is a delight.
A spending spree in the island capital
was a voyage into uncharted waters. I
was as intrigued by cod tongues and seal
flippers, brcwis and bakeapples, as
Champlain must have been when intro-
duced to spruce tea and pemmican.
Almost everything had to be imported
from "upalong" (mainland Canada) or
Europe, and one usually had two choices -
take •it or leave it. The clerks' neutral
stance could easily be mistaken for
indifference.
I remember one August asking a
hardware store to order a large Pyrex
casserole, complete with stand and
two -candle warmer. With my money
clutched in my hot little fist, I uncurled
one finger long enough to point to my
choice in the store's catalogue. The clerk
was firm in her refusal.
"We only order those in December, for
Christmas", she declared, and withstood
my raging as implacably as her island
home withstands the fury of thc stormy
Atlantic. She would not be moved.
When thinking of Ottawa, I recall the
good old days when bringing home the
bacon was fun, and the only trauma was
experienced in gathering up the grocer-
ies, not in paying for them.
Drivers leave the rules of the road in
the supermarket parking lot with their
vehicles. Once inside and steering a cart
through the aisles, anything goes. You
may drive in right or left lane, stop
without warning, turn suddenly port or
starboard without a hint of a signal, or
make an impromptu U-turn when you
realize you have just passed the pickled
kumquats.
On one of my expeditions, traffic was
blocked both ways in a large supermarket
while two women who had been travelling
in opposite directions met, recognized
each other as longlost friends, and
stopped to catch up on the events of the
past ten years. They chattered animated-
ly, seemingly oblivious to the many
customers waiting to get past.
Finally the woman beside mc said
"Watch this", and deftly ran the wheel of
Shopping daze
her buggy up the ankle of the nearer
blockader. The miscreant turned to an
ocean of bland, guileless faces, and
moved asidc. With a wink and a smile my
ingenious friend steamed ahead like
Moses through the Red Sea, leaving one
chastened and many chortling shoppers
in her wake.
Another time, spotting sport jackets on
sale in a large department store, 1 picked
out three I thought might be suitable.
While Don modelled thc third, a rather
loud brown and white check. 1 happened
to glance behind me, and found we had
an attentive audience. A middle-aged
man had been watching our little show,
and was laughing so hard he had
difficulty speaking. At last, between
spasms, he gasped, "1 hope if your
husband buys that one he knows how to
fight!"
So much for Ottawa. The inhabitants of
Huron arc much more helpful. All
nearsighted sufferers will sympathize
with the dilemma I face each time I need
new glasses. Even with my nose pressed
against a mirror, 1 gaze myopically
through empty frames at a fuzzy blur.
Last week 1 was selecting new glasses.
Narrowing my selection to three designs,
I tried on pair number one. Horizontal
hcadshakes from husband, optician and
lady customer awaiting her turn. Pair
number two elicited the same response.
On to pair number three. Through the
haze I could vaguely make out three
by Yvonne Reynolds
heads bobbing up and down in unison.
That's the pair 1 ordered. Who would
dare argue with such unanimity.
Shopping in the county's stores is
refreshing. There are no cities in Huron,
and the towns' salespeople, almost
without exception, are friendly and
helpful. And no wonder. Everyone knows
everyone else, and if you are not
neighbours, then your cousin's nephew
married her brother-in-law's sister's
niece.
One is granted privileges unheard-of in
larger centres. A store owner once
packed two expensive dresses into a box
so I could take them to my mother, and let
her make her choice in the quiet and
comfort of her home.
"But you haven't enclosed a bill", 1
exclaimed in amazement.
"That's okay", he replied tranquilly.
"1 know where to find you."
I had not been aware that he knew my
name.
My shopping forays are not always as
successful. On a recent trip into the big
city and thence to the factory outlet of a
Iing.rie manufacturer, 1 had an over-
powering craving for something I had
never owned - a slinky, sexy nightgown.
And for half the retail price. 1 spotted it at
once; long black chiffon, modestly held
together at the front with matching lace
and delicate black velvet bows.
Alas. None in my size. I came home
empty-handed. (I don't count the pair of
supp hose, with "tiny imperfections that
should not affect wear.")
Now that time had dulled my disap-
pointment, 1 have become philosophical.
Had 1 been able to turn my dream into
reality, and emerged without warning
from my flannelette chrysalis, I might
now be facing the nightmare of spending
the next weeks visiting my husband in the
coronary unit of one of the same city's
hospitals. Or, even later, and much
worse, he might be visiting me. In the
maternity ward.
All's well that ends well. i]
Yvonne Reynolds and husband [a retired
CAF officer] share six rural acres with
one hastily hred part Sheltie, one
Himalayan aristocat, one peasant cat,
and an ever-changing number of Bantie
chickens and Saanen and Nubian goats.
VILLAGE SQUIRE/MAY 1981 PG. 11