I Went To The Supermarket

I’m from a small village. The post office (buy stamps and mail packages only) was in a corner of the drugstore near some patent medicines. Only one person had mail delivery there, between some old prescription boxes; his address, 1 Fifth Avenue, was a cottage down in the swamp. Next door was the grocery store, one aisle, which had about three of anything you might want; underage kids (me) sold beer to a local state cop and bread was just inside the door. Curly, sticky fly catchers hung from the ceiling.

Later in life, I ran out of bread and went to a real supermarket. Life had changed.

Inside, to the left was a bank. “Bread? I don’t know, sir. But would you like to open an account?” No; I would like to open a loaf of bread. Behind it was a florist shop. “Bread? Sorry; we just sell flowers.” Flowers; I need flours. Up further, a specialty deli with little chunks of cheese for the tasting and a chalkboard with specials. Don’t even bother; they are wearing brown aprons, not white like my grandmother.

Ah! Bread! Right handy in the back of this giant store. I’m off Wonder Bread now, but a nice rye would do. Hmmm. Six-grain; twelve-grain; wheat with cod liver oil; organically-grown oat fertilized with local goat manure; rice with ingredients provided on request. Uh, this doesn’t look good.

On the way home, I pass Mrs. Jones’ Homemade Pies and Breads. “One rye.” “Here you are, sonny.” “Thank you and have a nice day.”