Shopping at Wal-Mart

When I left Southern California I knew I would miss having stores right down the street.

It wasn't always like that in the rural area where we used to live, but along with the march of suburbia and the tickytacky houses all looking the same sprouting on the hillsides up and down our canyon, came grocery stores five minutes down the road, Trader Joe's ten minutes away, and the Whole Foods culinary museum down the freeway in Orange County just forty minutes away. Now, a Trader Joe's or Whole Foods visit is 100 miles away, so we don't get there too often.

The big deal here is Super Wal-Mart. The closest town to us has a couple smaller grocery stores with a perpetual rotten meat odor, a modest organic and natural foods shop, and Super Wal-Mart. It's the only game in town if you are married to someone who eats Campbell's soup for lunch every single day and wants saltine crackers in the red box only.

To be kind and fair, Wal-Mart has changed somewhat since its earlier days and its offerings are adapted to the people shopping there. This town has several colleges, so I wonder if the organic canned goods, world foods, and a larger selection of produce may be to satisfy the student and teacher demographic. The larger group, though, are those who live in town and the local villages. It's a place to buy the family cheap, plentiful food. Besides, where else can you can snack on paper cups loaded with greasy little chunks of breaded chicken while shopping and pick up a little gossip all at the same time?

At Super Wal-Mart I have learned to check stuff before I take it home. Who would think to examine a jar of pickles to ensure that it hasn't been opened and a few pickles taken out? Who the hell makes sandwiches in Wal-Mart? I still wonder what happened to half the Better Than Bouillon chicken goo I found missing when I opened it to add a little pizazz to the soup I was making.  And why were two felt floor protectors, the ones that go on chair legs, snaked out of the pack and closed, oh, so cleverly? In other words,  I have learned to check everything.

It's interesting to shop at Wal-Mart because of the diversity of shoppers. An old, gray haired man with a ponytail shuffles down the aisles, wearing a beret and a Che t-shirt. He gives me a wink as our carts pass.  As I push my overloaded cart, a middle aged mom with a swirly tattoo on her shoulder saying "La Squeaky" says to me, "I hope someone's going to help you put all that away when you get home!" I tell her I have someone in mind, since he's the one who put 20 cans of Campbell's Chicken Barley Mushroom soup in there and disappeared to read magazines.

People shake each others' hands, asking, "How are you?" It's usually friendly at Wal-Mart, and shopping is a chance to see everyone and find out how they're doing.  Once two groups of women began shouting at each other, though, waving their arms, mad about something that happened a few days ago at a party. I decided not to go down that aisle.

The employees are friendly; some look like they are may have had crazy lives in an earlier time. There's a guy whose job is mainly in the ladies' department, hanging up clothing. People who buy clothes at Wal-Mart must try on a lot of stuff because he always has mounntains of stuff to hang. Three tattooed teardrops drip from the corner of one eye. I can never get this right: did he kill someone in prison, lose some loved ones? Or was it the number of years he was locked up? It just doesn't seem polite to ask, and he smiles and tells me to have a nice day. I hear him answer the phone, "Ladies' department, how may I help you?"

When I need help finding something automotive, a  young fellow says, "Let me show you where that is," and leads me to the correct aisle. Tattooed on the back of his neck it says, "Fuck this shit." I thank him. "My pleasure!" he answers.

It usually takes a while to check out because everyone knows everyone else. Even the Mennonite lady in her neat little cap has people stopping by her check stand to ask, "Hello, how are you?" People are not in a hurry here. A checker will pick up your item, examine it, and say, "I was wondering if this is good. How do you like it?"  She scans and bags slowly.  I notice a cross tattoo in the web between her thumb and index finger. Was she a cholita in her younger life? Is she a devout Christian or Catholic? Or is it a combination? Nonetheless, she is a good employee who is pleasant to the customers. I have learned that waiting in long lines at Super Wal-Mart is not as bad as a tornado in Joplin.

Adjusting to a different culture is a challenge at times and it's good to have an open mind. We are all different and what's weird in your old locale may be the norm in your new one.

Margaret Mead said it well: "Always remember that you are absolutely unique. Just like everyone else."

Let It Grow! Gardening at 7200 Feet

We live in Mora County, which, like many counties in the rural southwestern United States, has been characterized as a food desert. I knew about urban food deserts, areas lacking markets and stores where someone is able to buy healthy, inexpensive food. There may be liquor stores or fast food places in these neighborhoods, but it's hard to find nutritious ingredients to make a meal. I was surprised to learn from the Center for Rural Affairs that 98 percent of food deserts are rural.

I knew when we moved here that hopping into the car to pick up a few items at the supermarket a mile away was not an option. The closest store is a small market 25 minutes away. Prices are high and selection is limited. Produce is fresh if you get there on the day it is delivered. It's a basic store, like what you might find near a campground. A larger selection of food can be found in Taos or Las Vegas, an hour away, where you can find Super Wal-Mart and Albertson's. Two hours away is Santa Fe, where we shop every couple of months at Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. We go shopping crazy at Trader Joe's and I spend way too much time in Whole Foods. It's like we're on a field trip to a food museum after months shopping at Wal-Mart. I gawk at the prepared foods department, the fish man, and the meat counter.  I don't buy much at Whole Foods but have a great time nonetheless.

People here spend summers canning fruits and vegetables they pick up from roadside vendors who drive in from Colorado and Texas. A few weeks ago a produce truck overturned on the highway at night. Word got around and next thing you knew a crowd of local residents were in the dark, gathering the spilled veggies. I got some bell peppers and tomatoes from a friend and another lady canned salsa out of the tomatillos she had gleaned from the spill.

Last year I attempted to grow some veggies. I didn't have time to actually dig up a garden, so I planted in soil bags and Earth Boxes.

I grew cabbage in potting soil bags and each of these plants made one softball sized cabbage. Pitiful! I chose short season, cold weather tomato plants and had mixed results there, too. The growing season was just too brief.

The abbreviated growing season meant limited access to fresh veggies unless I wanted to drive an hour or more to a supermarket. So I decided after lots of research to get a greenhouse, not just one for starting plants, but for a year round harvest.

This week a team is coming to assemble our new Growing Dome. We had to prep the site where the dome would stand. Tom used his Polaris blade to level the ground. Men love to move earth around, don't they?

Normally Ms. Pearl would be riding shotgun, but whenever Tom raises or lowers the blade, she bolts from the cab and runs alongside.

The dome will rest on gravel, so Ernest picked it up in town and we made a nice little pile for the installers. The Angus cousins, in the background, loved the entertainment. Ms. Pearl stood by in case anyone wanted to throw the Frisbee for her. I shoveled gravel, too, really!

My back reminded me later that I was a delicate hothouse flower not made for such labor.