Flower Shopping

A trip to a garden shop yesterday put me much in mind of spring. Though it's cloudy and rainy today, yesterday it was warm and sunny, and the shop had everything, it seemed, except the one plant I was looking for.

That would be a climbing rose. This old-fashioned beauty is no longer in favor, it seems. All eyes are on the knockout rose, its flashy second (or third?) cousin. 

Knockouts are beautiful, and easier to grow than most other varieties, but long ago I fell in love with climbers and am stuck with the attraction now. In a few weeks I'll post a photo that will explain why. For now, though, a picture of some magenta phlox I spied on a walk the other day. They're perfect enough to be in a garden shop themselves.

Ir As Compras*

A week ago we were just returning from Portugal. Since then I've been to three local grocery stores, an unusually high number — but necessary given there will be a crowd here on Sunday.

With every shop I visit there is one tugging at my memory. It's Pingo Doce, the Portuguese supermercado chain that was so much fun to visit, it was almost not like grocery shopping at all. 

The first one we found was less than 10 minutes walk from our apartment in Funchal. There we bought milk, eggs, bread and vegetables. Another one, just slightly farther away, had delicious tangerines as well as prepared foods. 

On our second-to-last day in Madeira, we found the largest Pingo of all, in downtown Funchal. It was not unlike a Wegman's in size and scope. I picked up Portuguese Easter treats for the kiddos there.

And finally, we discovered that the chain extended to (probably began in) Lisbon. We never visited the flagship store there, but did dip into a smaller market in Cais do Sodre. As with the others there were self-assured locals doing their weekly shop, confused tourists searching for toothpaste, and harried clerks trying to deal with it all. Life itself, in other words. 

(*"To go shopping" in Portuguese. Above, a Pingo shopper in Funchal, just back from a hike.)

Plodding

Over the weekend, I broke in a pair of hiking boots, my first ever. Though I've hiked plenty, I've always hiked in running shoes, which is pretty much what hiking boots look like these days. 

The clerk who helped me said that as long as I stay in the eastern half of the United States and don't carry more than 15 pounds, I could get away with what he called trail runners. Trail runners look exactly like running shoes, so I passed on them. If I'm finally going to spring for a pair of hiking boots, I reasoned, I want them to resemble the real article at least slightly, meaning bulky, brown and many-laced.

The ones I finally settled on (and I mean finally — I tried on six pairs) look sturdier than tennis shoes but less daunting than I originally imagined. The difference lies in the gait they enforce. One is not fleet of foot in a pair of hiking boots; one plods. But plodding isn't so bad, I've discovered.

Wreathed in Fog

A soft fog last night as I drove to a meeting. A fog that made the lighted trees and homes send halo-like rainbows into the gloom. 

Our house is finally among the decorated, with candles in the windows and lights along the roof and a big old wreath that I bought as a splurge because it smells so much nicer than the artificial one — and also because it was made by Bradley's mother. 

That would be Bradley from Whitetop Mountain, Virginia, the same fellow we bought from last year. He apologized that the trees cost more this December and said he would "work with us" on the price. I bought the wreath to up the total. Bradley and his family could use it, I imagine. 

And now the wreath and the lights are shaking their fists at the darkness. In less than two weeks, the days start growing longer. 

Malls of America

Darkened storefronts, sparse merchandise, even the busy Apple store was quiet yesterday at the mall. True, it was a rainy Tuesday more than two weeks away from the big day, but even a few years ago it would have been bustling. Not for the first time I ask myself ... where have all the people gone? 

They're in their homes, collecting Amazon deliveries. While in the sad cavernous halls poor souls wander, looking for candles or purses or calendars, strolling through clouds of perfume and the scent of cinnamon rolls, listening to yet another rendition of "I'll Be Home for Christmas.".

I've never been a mall lover, always held them responsible for the death of downtowns, but yesterday's trip made me feel sorry for them — and for us.

Buying Local

This year's tree came did not grow on a sloping hillside in the richest county in the United States. We did not wait in line 30 minutes to be allowed the pleasure of cutting it down.

This year's tree was not bought from Vale United Methodist Church, the white building at an ancient crossroads like a picture postcard with each purchase contributing to a fund to end hunger.

This year's tree came from a small lot I noticed on the way out of town, a beaten-earth parking lot with a big tacky Santa Claus and a string of simple lights. On our first trip there, we met Bradley from Whitetop Mountain, down near the Tennessee and North Carolina border. His family has been selling trees on this spot for decades, he said.

Bradley apologized. The trees had been picked over, he said, but he was expecting a shipment that very evening. If we liked, he would take our number and let us know when the shipment arrived. I didn't think we would hear from him, I figured the tree shortage had caught up with us, that we'd have to pay hundreds of dollars for a scrawny spruce.

But by noon last Friday, Bradley texted: the new shipment was in. We hurried over and found a full and fragrant Frasier fir. It now sits proudly in our living room. This year we bought local by necessity. Next year, we'll buy local by choice.

The DNA of Shopping

My Christmas list has morphed from one that was always on paper, even just a few years ago, to one that's mostly in the notes section of my phone. 

This parallels my shopping, which has evolved from mostly brick-and-mortar to well over half online. 

I still scrawl gift ideas on slips of paper which I then tuck into my purse. And I still like to go shopping, to physically enter a store, even if I have to wait a few minutes in line or spend more time than I'd like looking for a price tag.

It's part of the eternal give-and-take of hunting and gathering, a proclivity that I'm convinced is buried deep somewhere in our DNA.

(Not a shopping list, but a shopping district ... this one in Lexington, Kentucky.)

Shopping Online

I did my best to pretend that yesterday wasn't Black Friday, but by the end of the day I caved and went online. And yes, there was the hysteria I remember from years gone by, or at least a virtual version of it made possible by pop-ups, reminders that there are "only five left ... order soon!" and countdown clocks.

It's the clocks that affected me most, their hours, minutes and seconds all winding down to midnight. Perhaps because I'm time-sensitive, accustomed to packing as much as I can into whatever time I have. Why should shopping be any different?

Well ... because it should, that's why. It should be a deliberative process — not the digital equivalent of pawing through lingerie in Macy's basement. 

But darned if the online marketers didn't figure out a way to make us care ... and rush. 

Black Friday — it runs through Sunday, from what I hear.

(A real shopping experience, complete with masks.)

Wednesday Market

I remembered just in time yesterday, remembered that it was Wednesday and the farmer's market was happening in my church parking lot. The church doesn't sponsor the market, just offers it a place to be. But having it there gives it a welcome familiarity.

As the summer has deepened, the produce offerings have expanded — and so has the carnival aspect of the event. Yesterday the parking lot was so full that I thought for a moment a service must be going on. But it wasn't a service, just a lot of vegetable-lovers — and more. 

This market includes bakery booths and a barbecue place, organic meats and micro-greens. A steel drum player gives it a Caribbean beat. As I squeezed tomatoes and peaches, I spotted a fleet of cyclists moving effortlessly down the road. For a moment it felt like summer would never end. 

Thoughts on Emergence

In a single afternoon last week, I masked up and was led to a hand-washing station before a doctor's appointment. Later, at a small boutique, I had my temperature checked and was told to use hand sanitizer before venturing in. 

At my last stop of the day,  a small shop that sells Catholic books and gifts, I was one of the few folks wearing a mask. "How do people expect us to breathe in one," grumbled the proprietress, sans mask, as she wrapped up my purchase.  

Such is life as we emerge from pandemic restrictions here in northern Virginia.

In my travels to the Northwest almost a month ago, we wore masks most everywhere, including on the sidewalk in some neighborhoods, attempting to fit in with the locals. Yesterday, at a brunch in Arlington, the restaurant was fully occupied with scarcely a mask in sight. 

It's a weird hodgepodge and infinitely preferable to what we had this time last year. So I'm not complaining, only observing that if there is one truth somewhere, one right way to do things, I'm not sure who knows it. 

(Disinfectant, anyone? At Pike Place Market in Seattle, May 15.)

Limit Two

The grocery store signage of the hour doesn't advertise the latest sale, doesn't promise half price or double coupons. The grocery store signage of the hour says "Limit Two." Customers are told they can buy no more than two liquid soap dispensers, two gallons of milk, two dozen eggs, two pounds of butter and two boxes of pasta.

It is the language of scarcity, the language of a pandemic and, in this topsy-turvy world in which we now live, perhaps also the language of the future.

Are we, after so much abundance, entering an era of scarcity? It certainly seems so. There are fewer jobs, fewer certainties — and most definitely fewer rolls of toilet paper.

But even after the production of goods has been ramped up I wonder if we will keep the "Limit Two" mentality. It wouldn't be such a bad thing. Because what Limit Two does most of all is to acknowledge that there are those who come after us — and they will be wanting their milk, eggs and butter too.

(Photo: NJ.com)

Old Blue Shoes

I had been meaning to replace them late last year, then in January ... and February ... and March. But by the time retail shopping shut down last month I still hadn't bought a new pair of running shoes to replace my beat-up, ratty-looking old ones.

It's not as if I couldn't purchase a pair of replacements online. But I like to try on shoes before buying them.

So I soldier on, hoping the toe hole won't grow much larger, hoping that the soles won't shed any more rubber, that the heels won't grow any lumpier than they are now.

Making do. It's what we do now.

(This title a tip of the hat to New Blue Shoes, one of Claire's favorite books when she was a little girl.)

Bingo!

The line stretched past the supermarket and the auto parts place, almost to the furniture store by the time I got to the store, pulled on my rubber gloves, picked up a cart and stood in line this morning. It's grocery shopping in the age of COVID-19.

Once inside I was making my usual rounds when I suddenly remembered I ought to make a beeline to the paper goods aisle. And there, almost mirage-like, were a couple dozen packages of toilet paper ... and even more of paper towels. There was liquid soap, too.

I grabbed one package each of toilet tissue and towels and some hand soap. My shopping trip would  have been complete even if I ended it right there.

But I was able to get everything else on my list — picked up not in the usual circular way, around the perimeters first then aisle by aisle but by zigzagging from one potentially scarce set of items to another. Skim milk. Check. Spaghetti. Check. Bread. Check.

Back home now, with cans and packages wiped down and put away ... I'm ready for a nap.

(Another day, another store. This week I was able to find everything on my list!)

Food Palace

For the last couple of years I've shopped for food at a discount grocery chain where prices are low and brands are simple: basically there's one. This means there's limited selection, and I like it this way. There's no need to deliberate, so I save time and energy.

A couple days ago I found myself in the antithesis of this grocery store. I found myself in a Food Palace. There were a dozen types of pate, mushrooms so exotic I'd never heard of them and a bakery to die for. It was chaotic and amusing. I was often bewildered. But the mushrooms were delicious when sautéed in butter — and I tore into the chewy but tender Tuscan pane on the way home.

It was as if the food choices I've eschewed these last two years had gathered around and started taunting me. See what you've been missing, they said.  Look at this richness, this bounty.

I looked, I appreciated. But the very next day I went back to my discount grocer.

Shopping Season

What's the saying, when the going gets tough, the tough go ... shopping?

As Americans hit the malls and big box stores, as they weed through websites in search of cyber deals, I think about the pastime of shopping, what it can do for you and what it can't.

My mother liked to shop. If she had time to kill she would while it away in a store or two.

This is not the way I unwind. Put me in a darkened movie theater or downstairs in the basement with an episode of "The Crown." For me, shopping is a means to an end.

But the shopping season is upon us, so today I'll do my bit for the economy. Not with joy or gladness but with a sense of duty.

Extra Large

A brief shopping trip last night found me wandering an almost-empty mall. Clerks chatted at vacant makeup counters or fussed with jewelry displays. There was no line to see Santa. Mall walkers had the run of the place.

As I pawed through sweaters I noticed something else. Almost all of them were extra large, some even extra-extra large. And at the bookstore, a similar lack of choice: Half of the well-reviewed, recently published books I was looking for were not on the shelves.

Yes, the stores will be busier this weekend — but not that much busier, from what I've heard.  People shop with their fingers now. I know this. I do it, too. There's infinite choice, less hassle. But I miss the market square and the hustle bustle. I wonder if it will ever come back.

New Blue Shoes

Every year or so I buy myself some new tennis shoes. I usually reprise whatever make and model I'm currently wearing, as long as it fits and has held up to my daily battering. Which means that I don't choose by color, only by comfort.

Some years I end up with garish purples and greens. Others with white. But this year, I hit the jackpot: a pastel beauty that's mostly the color of sky, with just a hint of aquamarine.

The minute I saw these I thought they should be Celia's — my youngest daughter loves this color and looks great in it. It wasn't until yesterday that I realized there's also a connection with my middle daughter, Claire. One of her favorite books growing up was New Blue Shoes by Eve Rice.

The book is about a shoe-shopping expedition and a little girl who knows what she wants — new shoes, blue shoes, new blue shoes — and will have no other. A perfect favorite for Claire, who has always known what she wants, whether it's pink stiletto heels or a new puppy.

I like my new blue shoes, even though I didn't fight for them. Maybe I should have!

Boxes!

It's not exactly to the break-even point yet, but I'm definitely ordering more holiday gifts online this year, and my sister is, too. So based on this highly unscientific sampling of two, I think there's a trend here.

(I'm not so far off on this trend definition. When I wrote pieces for women's magazines, a "trend" was something that you and a couple of your close friends were noticing — after which you dug up enough evidence to convince your editors it was really happening.)

But, back to this year's shopping stats, I do have real, tangible proof: the piles of boxes in front of the houses in my neighborhood.

Usually you see lots of boxes after the holidays, not before. But no more.

'Tis the season for FedEx and UPS and even the lowly ole US Post Office — and the containers they leave behind. They're making the Yuletide jolly. And easier, too.

Shopping at Night

A window of time opened up, a confluence of hour and place. I understood what I had to do and when I had to do it. So I followed vague directions to the outlet shops I knew were there in theory but had never reached from that starting point.

And when I got there the sun was setting, a disc on fire slipping behind the faux roofs. I watched it slide away, assembled my list, had a bite to eat and gathered my courage.

It was a quiet evening. Who shops on Friday night? People like me, I realized. Women with determination in their eyes and lists in their hands. As the evening wore on, not just lists but shopping bags, too.

There comes a point in the season when you are finally into it. You have gone too far not to be. From here there will be tree-cutting, hauling and decorating. There will be more shopping (I hope not too much more!),  There will be baking and card-writing and stocking-hanging and all of it, right up to the cacophony of Christmas morning.

'Tis the season, you know.

Mall Walking

It wasn't premeditated, I swear, but when I found myself at the mall last evening with weather too dark and foggy for outdoor strolling, I thought ... why not?

I turned around in the hallway, swung by Sears and the CVS. Before I knew it I was striding past Hollister, up and down the short Macy's hall, then out again into the main space where Santa sits. I passed the Apple store, the Talbots and the Williams and Sonoma.

It wasn't exactly Fifth Avenue, but I was speeding through what passes for commerce and public space in my part of the world.

How strange to fast-walk halls so often clogged with window shoppers and pre-teens. It was empowering. I had no intention of buying anything. I was, in a strange sort of way, beating the system.

Is this what all mall walkers feel? If so, bring it on!