Men and the Store

We Go, We Get, We Get Out

by Wendel Potter

 

I just got back from "The Store." You know what I mean. The "grocery store."

Over the years, "going to the store" has become synonymous with "getting a FEW groceries."

If you're heading to Target to buy some underwear and the kids say, "Dad, where are you going?" you don't say, "To the store."

No. You say, "I'm going to Target," or you just leave Target out of it altogether and say, "I'm going to buy some underwear."

Now, of course, some stores sell both groceries AND underwear. But "going to the store" means you are definitely in search of standard class I grocery type products. If you're going to buy underwear at one of those stores that also sells groceries, then you'll mention the name of the store. 

Don't ask me why this is. This is America. I didn't make the rules, I just live here.

So now that I've told you that I just got back from the store, you know I've been grocery shopping. Twice in one day, as a matter of fact.

Yes, I've been to the store twice today. Not the same store, either, but still "the store." Like plain label groceries, "the store" is a generic term. In this city, it could be any of a half-dozen stores, but when you're going there, it's simply "the store."

You might ask, Why go twice in one day?  Where have you been? You should know that you never get everything you need in one trip. Not for our household and, I'll bet, not for yours, either.

Oh, did I mention grocery "shopping?" Men are not known for their love of shopping. As a matter of fact, in men's circles, "shopping" is known as the "s" word.

"I'm going to the store" or "I'm going to buy underwear" is, for men, much more bearable to say than "I'm going shopping."

Shopping means "This is going to take some valuable time out of my busy schedule," whereas "going to the store" means, "I'll just pick up a few things and check out the beer prices. I'll have a cart to push around for exercise and to lean on if I grow weary."

You see? Men can turn going to the grocery store into a game. It doesn't have to be all that bad. That is unless the wife, before her husband leaves the house, hands the man that most dreaded of all pieces of paper -- THE LIST!

Why do men fear THE LIST? Not only does it contain enough items to qualify the trip "to the store" as actual "s," but the items on THE LIST are usually scattered throughout the store, well hidden in nooks and crannies and freezer compartments where only women can find them, making the trip more like a scavenger hunt.

To find these items may even require asking a clerk for help. No, no, no! To men, this is not acceptable. We do not ask for help because the clerk will then give us odd looks and call us "stupid crazy old farts" behind our backs. And that hurts!

 So, rather than ask the condescending clerk where the Velveeta is kept, we go home and tell our wives that the store no longer carries dairy products, that it's a religious thing. Of course, when we do this, our wives give us odd looks and call us "stupid crazy old farts." To our faces! Wives are not afraid.

Which brings us to the reasons we make TWO trips in one day. Because we came home without everything on THE LIST. Or, and this one is even worse, because we SUBSTITUTED and brought home the wrong items.

This last reason is the worst of the two. Bringing home the wrong stuff means that the return trip must be made to the same store.

Don't count on just throwing the wrong stuff in the garbage and starting over at a different store, where the clerks haven't seen you in awhile. Not only is this a less than frugal method, it also does not meet with a wife's standards and practices for GROCERY STORE RETURNS AND EXCHANGES!

Just get the right stuff in the first place, fellows. Otherwise, your lovely live-in will put the unwanted articles in a bag along with the receipt on which those return items are circled with a black Sharpie. This is how a woman points out to the folks back at the store, "My husband, the moron, substituted items on my list and brought home the wrong stuff! PRAY FOR HIM!"

Just plain forgetting an item on the list also creates a problem for the moron -- I mean, the husband. If he forgets to buy, let's say, a feminine hygiene product (forgets? Yeah, right!), then he has to make a decision. Does he return to the same store and run the risk of going through the same cashier's checkout? Because, I grant you this, this is the one time when the self-checkout stands are closed.

Or does he go to another store where nobody remembers him, but he still feels compelled to buy a candy bar and an Enquirer so it doesn't look like he's solely on a feminine hygiene product emergency run? And he knows he's in "Store Hell" when the cashier asks the poor guy in front of him, "DO YOU WANT THESE DEPENDS IN A BAG, SIR?"

Yes, of course he does. And another bag, please to put over his head!

In the end, ladies, please try to understand: There's some things a guy just isn't suited for. The "s" word is one of them.

 

Copyright 2021 by Wendel Potter

 

Turning the Pages: Profile of a Brief and Valued Friendship by Wendel Potter

I wrote this essay in 2005. I've made a few revisions, such as updating the timeline, to avoid any confusion. It's a true story and the lessons learned have stayed with me all these years.

I knew Bob only briefly, toward the end of his life. It was nearly 50 years ago. We were introduced by a high school teacher who had a downstairs apartment in the rear of the small town's hotel. Bob's mother owned the hotel and, when I got to know him, he was living in a suite of rooms on the second floor.

Bob invited me up one evening, shortly after we met, and I went. He was a rangy fellow with longish gray hair and his wayward beard was scraggly. His face seemed eons older than its actual middle-aged years and was lined with untold history. There was a look of sheepish withdrawal in his darting, red-ringed eyes. Bob put you in the mind of a scary, misfit Apostle.

When I arrived, I was instantly impressed with what he had done with the place. Single-handedly, Bob had gutted two or three of the old hotel's rooms and remodeled them, having fashioned for himself a quaint, modernized apartment that defied the hotel's outward aging appearance. He waved off my praise with embarrassment, quickly dismissing the quality of his craftsmanship.

But I knew Bob had not invited me up for a grand tour of his refurbished bachelor's quarters. Aware of his penchant for whisky, I thought perhaps he might offer me a drink, but there was no alcohol immediately in sight. What did catch my eye astounded me.

It's the demons, such as a thirst for booze, that marks a man for life. And for death. Especially in a small town. It's like a shroud that he wears and it's all anybody knows him for. 

It's amazing what you might find when the veil is lifted and the man's deeper secrets are laid bare.

On the floor of Bob's sitting room were piles of paperback books.These were the novels that had sat a long time without selling, on the book rack of the drug store just across the alley. They were destined for the trash bin, with the covers ripped off as retailers did in those days. But Bob had dug them out and brought them up to his apartment to give them a good read first.

"I know you like books," he said to me. "If you want to go through them and pick out a few to take home, feel free."

"Yes, I love to read, Bob." I wanted to add, "I had no idea you were a reader," but I didn't, fearful the remark would somehow come off as arrogant and demeaning.

After we discussed books for awhile, he asked me about my writing. Our mutual friend had told Bob that I was pursuing a writing career. Now he wanted to hear about my craftsmanship.

I told him that I had been writing since I was 10 years old and wrote a novel during my junior year in high school, which at that time had been only a couple of years ago. While success had been unsurprisingly elusive at that age, I continued to write because, well, that's what writers do. It's something that sets fire to your blood and drives you down winding, unfamiliar roads with the power of a turbo engine.

Like whisky, I thought to myself, sadly studying this new friend who was thin as a rail with yellow, dying eyes.

Bob excused himself and wandered into another room. When he returned, he was holding a sheaf of ragged type-written pages. He seemed to be pondering his next move, then awkwardly handed the pages to me.

"I've done some writing myself over the years," he said. "I wondered if you'd like to read this and see what you think."

It was a short story. Curious, I began reading while Bob busied himself in another room. I was momentarily distracted by a glass clanging against a countertop and ice cubes dropping one on top of the other, like shovelfuls of dirt into a grave.

Back to his story, I was overwhelmed by Bob's talent. He had poured words onto the pages in perfect measure. And you knew those words had made the trip all the way from some valley deep inside his heart. The man was truly a writer.

When I had finished, I told him that the story was magnificent. But that embarrassed him, too. Writing was just something he liked to do, he told me. And when I left later that evening, I was certain it was something he'd never do again.

The last time I saw Bob was just a short time later. His mother was in the hospital, dying.

I had gone to the hotel to visit him. Bob was numb, already grieving, knowing that his mother's life would be over soon. Sadly, Bob was dying, too.

He had cancer. And on this evening, he had whisky. He was mixing it in a glass with milk, the milk to help soften the blow when the whisky splashed into his cancerous stomach.

He was inconsolable. Feeling like I was in the way, I offered my sympathy and departed. 

Bob's mother died that night. Not long after, Bob passed away, too.

I'm sure he never intended to teach me any lessons. As he was fading from life, he was only looking for a friend to share his interest in reading and writing. I so wished he'd crossed my path sooner.

Nevertheless I learned something in that short time. It had to do with those piles of paperback books, with the front covers missing. I discovered that the cover really means nothing. The heart of the book is within. If we keep turning pages, it can be truly amazing what we discover.

 

Copyright 2005 by Wendel Potter

Have Yourself a Merry Little Whatevermas

The original version of this column appeared in the Grand Island Independent on December 20, 2000.

 

As far as seasonal music goes, the Yuletide wouldn't be complete without at least once hearing John Lennon and Yoko Ono's "Happy Xmas (War is Over)". For me, it's just as traditional as "We Three Kings" or "Please Daddy, Don't Get Drunk This Christmas."

John and Yoko must have been the original political correctionists. But I'm sure they must have felt that, by replacing "Christ" with "X," they were spreading their season's wishes to everyone in the world, to all cultures, races and creeds.

When I was a small boy in Catholic school, our favorite teacher, Sister Attila -- we called her Attila the Nun -- made it very clear that saying "Xmas" was not proper. As a matter of fact, it would be pagan of us to say "Xmas," and for those who risked such an impropriety, the chances were pretty good of spending an eternity in hell, roasting like an Xmas goose.

"If you take out Christ, you won't have Christmas," she used to tell us.

That's true, I thought. Remove Christ, and we'd be left with plain old "mas." How weird would that be?

Change those songs to "We Wish You a Merry Mas," "I'm Dreaming of a White Mas" and "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Mas," and they just wouldn't have the same ring or rhythm to them as the original versions.

Of course, keep in mind that, if you study the lyrics to those songs, you won't find any mention of Christ throughout except in the word Christmas itself. Nor will you either, in "Silver Bells" or "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeermas."

Why bring political correctness into the scheme of holiday things? I've known Jewish people who warmly exchanged "Merry CHRISTmas" with me. I've also known folks who professed no real religious faith at all, but they didn't hesitate to share a cup of holiday cheer, nor did they rebuff me when I wished them a "Merry CHRISTmas." They even wished it back at me.

With or without Christ, the message of peace and goodwill still rings out loud and clear like the peal of a church bell whenever a heartfelt "Merry Christmas" is passed from the lips of one person to the ears of another.

The declaration that Christ is "the reason for the season" has been a fashionable Christmas sentiment over the past few years. People like catchy little phrases, especially if they rhyme. It's that Madison Avenue influence.

Surely, Christmas as many of us know it is rooted in the birth of Jesus. Of course, along the way, we've added traditions that stemmed from other cultures, like the Christmas tree, the lights, the holly and garland, the ornaments, the wonderful foods, the wrapping paper and bows and so on. It's all been blended in a fabulous mix that delights us every December -- and keeps retailers' cash registers ringing. That's THEIR reason for the season.

At the same time, Christians shouldn't be so narrow as to assume we corner the market on Christmas, not where the true meaning of the yuletide spirit is concerned.

"Merry Christmas" isn't solely a religious greeting just because it contains "Christ." More importantly, it's a wonderful offering of friendship that contains Christ's message: Love one another.

The way I see it, to spread that message is the reason he came to earth. And not just at Christmastime. The entire year should be a season for the reason.

John and Yoko needn't have replaced Christ with X in order to reach people the world over with their song of peace. Today, we needn't say "season's greetings" or "happy holidays" merely as a politically correct substitute for "merry Christmas."

On the other hand, Christians should be sensitive to the beliefs that non-Christians hold dear to their own hearts. As long as everyone is on the same wavelength of peace on earth, goodwill toward men, does it really make a difference who the messenger is as long as everyone gets the message?

Merry Whatevermas, Everybody!  

 

 

Copyright 2000 by Wendel Potter

 

A Merry Cheeseburger Christmas From My Grill To Yours

A ghost from my Christmas Past columns

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Originally published in the Grand Island Independent December 21, 2002

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Past Columns

At my house last weekend, you wouldn't have guessed it was mid-December in Nebraska. It looked more like a tropical postcard than a winter wonderland.

With temperatures in the high 60s and under a warm bath of sunshine, I took to the backyard on Sunday afternoon and lit the charcoal in my kettle grill. I popped open a can of beer and, correctly attired in my Hawaiian shirt, sat back in my lawn chair and tuned in to a Jimmy Buffett concert on CD (turned up way loud!) Ahh Merry Christmas! Time for cheeseburgers!

The only thing I forgot as I was getting comfortable was to latch the back gate. Ordinarily, when I lounge in the back yard with Buffett, beer and burning briquettes, my black woolly dog, Dylan, is at my side. The music appears to be lost on him, so I assume it's the beer he's after. But as the steel drums began tinkling and Buffett began singing, the burgers began sizzling and I began sipping, it came to my attention that the dog was nowhere in sight.

I whistled and immediately Dylan came running up the driveway and scooted through the gate. He trotted over to my chair and obediently sat down beside me. He was tapping his paw to the music while eyeballing my frosty can of beer.

"Don't be running off," I scolded him, although he's never run far.

Usually, he scampers around to the front of the house and sits on the porch. Sometimes he'll press his nose against the window and look in.

So Dylan said to me, "What's with the tree?"

"Tree? What are you talking about?"

"The tree in your living room. That's really weird. And it's got colored lights wrapped around it."

"How would you know?" I asked him. "I thought dogs were color blind."

"How would you know?" he asked me. "You're not a dog."

"It's a Christmas tree," I explained. "I guess you outdoor dogs don't know about 'O Tannenbaum.'"

"We know three things about trees. They make great shade in the summer. They provide a safe haven for those @#!* squirrels when they run away from us. And trees make a great urinal!"

"Well, at Christmas time we humans make some space in our living rooms and put up a tree -- ours is artificial because the Good Wife is allergic to many things."

"Why can't you make some space in there for me once in awhile?"

"Because you're one of the things GW is allergic to."

"So tell me about this Christmas thing. It seems to happen about once every year around this time. I can usually tell because people seem to be a little kinder."

"That's true, although people should be kind all year round. That's the idea behind Christmas. A baby named Jesus was born 2000 years ago in a town called Bethlehem, in Israel. The whole story is in a book called The Bible."

I turned my burgers and cracked open another beverage, then continued, "Jesus grew up to be a very great man who wandered through the desert, healed the sick, fed the hungry and preached an unusual message that folks hadn't heard before. He told people to love another, to do good, to turn the other cheek if someone slaps them and to pray for those who hate them. 

"Well, people were startled. They had never heard such talk. This was unorthodox stuff, all this love and forgiveness without revenge and retribution. But his words apparently caught on because, even after 2000 years, they're still being preached the world over. Why, even the government of these United States of America was founded on Christian principles. 

"Yes, sir. Jesus became known among Christians as 'the Way, the Truth and the Life.' He's called the Prince of Peace. And the message of Christmas is 'Peace on earth, good will toward men.' That's why we observe Jesus' birthday every 25th of December."

"And go back to kicking ass on the 26th?"

"Yeah, pretty much," I said. "I gotta admit. We don't have that peace, love and forgiveness thing down real pat."

"Good story, though," my dog said. "So what's the tree in the living room got to do with anything?"

"Well, that's so Santa Claus can put our presents underneath it."

"Who's Santa Claus?"

"Oh, he's just another nice guy who shows up at Christmas with a message we also tend to forget about the rest of the year."

---

 Copyright 2002 by Wendel Potter

Some Yuletide Notes by Wendel Potter

 

 

                                                        Potter's Christmas Tree...2021

 

 

What we call the Yuletide is now upon us. It's that most wonderful time of the year when Christians and Retail Giants whip themselves into a frothy frenzy in order to celebrate the birthday of history's greatest Jew.

One way we do this is by putting a tree in our living room. My tree is artificial, much like the Seasons Greetings extended by those Retail Giants, as well as what passes for Christianity these days.

Some folks also deck their lawns with brightly lit nativity scenes featuring the Baby Jesus in the manger wrapped in swaddling clothes. I'm not sure why he was dressed in swaddling clothes.

Once, for my birthday, I was given a pair of blue jeans that swaddled. I just didn't like them so I exchanged them for a pair that didn't swaddle. Swaddling clothes were just not my style.

But back to the manger. This holy scene is often enhanced by a cast of reverent characters (also brightly lit) that includes shepherds, gift-bearing kings, glorious angels and Frosty the Snowman.

Frosty was there in Bethlehem when Jesus was born. He just didn't get any press until much later, when the song was written.

The Baby Jesus figurine in those outdoor displays is almost always naked from the waist up. I guess his clothes must have swaddled down on him, much like those blue jeans I had.
 

In Nebraska, where I grew up, the night time temperatures dip well into the lower 20s. Would someone please do the Christian thing and give Baby Jesus a parka?

I'll chip in. It could be an early birthday present.

Church is a big thing this time of year. People flock to it as though it hadn't been there before. There is, I admit, something particularly awe-striking about a church festively decorated for the Christmas season. And going to church on Christmas is probably better than never going at all.

Our hearts tell us that God is there inside those cathedral walls. For me, He should be inside our hearts and often is not. I guess you never know where you're going to find God, though.

Thomas Paine said, "These are the times that try men's souls." No doubt he was referring to the Christmas shopping season.

Yuletide Shopping brings out the Christian in all of us, wouldn't you agree? I've seen it happen.

Two mothers, complete strangers until they met each other in line outside the Big Box at midnight, display their camaraderie when they both spot that last popular electronic game console that went on sale for $5000 at 4 in the morning.

And there they are, in Toy Aisle 7, tightly embracing each other--by the hair with one hand and gripping the Bargain of the Day with the other. This, ladies and gentleman, is togetherness.

It's somewhat amusing to me that a season that promises peace and joy is officially ushered in on a day called Black Friday. The day before that, we were gathered with family and friends to enjoy a turkey dinner and to give our Lord thanks for His blessings.

So on the following day, people meet at the mall in the predawn, carrying a leftover turkey drumstick with which to beat the hell out of their savage bargain-hunting opponents.

I like our Christmas tree, the one pictured above this column. Karen and I have had that same angel for 44 years. She's always adorned the top of every tree we've had.

Here she is, close up:

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Irish musician Enya sings a Christmas song called "Magic of the Night." It's a beautiful expression of Yuletide dreams, ringing bells, and angels in flight. That is indeed the magic.

At night, when our living room is lit by nothing but the Christmas tree lights, and holiday music is quietly playing in the background, our angel takes on a particular glow and brightens my spirit.

No malls. No crowds. No lines. No waiting. No anger. No bargains. No fighting.

Our angel is in flight. And the night becomes magic in its solitude. The heart becomes humble.

And there is peace and joy in the season.

As Linus said, "That's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

---

Copyright 2007 Wendel James Potter

 

Here Comes Santa Claus, Staggering Down Memory Lane by Wendel Potter

This column originally appeared on 12/12/04 in the Grand Island Independent. 

 

SPOILER ALERT!!! Small children should not be allowed to read this column!

Not that many of them could. But just in case there are a few young phonetically geared wizards out there, I don't want to spoil Christmas for them. Because today I am going to discuss one of the greatest legends of our childhood: Santa Claus.

I still remember the day my mother broke the news, along with my heart. "Santa is only a myth," she told me.

"I thought he was a mythter," I said.

"No. A myth," Mom explained, "is like a legend, an amazing story that's been told about someone down through the years, but it turns out it's not a true story."

"In other words," I said, helping Mom through this tragic parental ordeal, "there's no Santa Claus."

"Bingo!"

It came as no surprise. Like most children who had reached the age of reason, I was finding that the fable of the jolly fat man from the North Pole was getting harder and harder to swallow with each passing Christmas season.

As children growing up in a holiday-minded town in Iowa, my friends and I were well schooled in the Santa doctrine. We were firm believers in old Kris Kringle, and the "naughty or nice" routine kept us on the straight and narrow. For parents, it was like having an imaginary cop to keep their kids in line for at least the better part of five weeks.

Now, we also understood the concept of fake Santas, having encountered several along the way. We could always tell if a department store Santa Claus was the real deal or not. This gift of instant identification came easily for us Santa experts.

As I recall it, Santa Claus hung out in the entrance to a downtown store every Wednesday and Friday afternoon in December. As soon as school let out, we raced the two blocks to Anthony's Department Store where he was handing out giant-sized Milky Way candy bars. Santa, not Anthony. Come to think of it, I'm not sure Anthony really existed.

We instantly decided that Anthony's Santa was THE Santa Claus. It was like staring into the face of a prophet. His suit, his beard, his sleigh-side manner were perfect. And the candy bars were free!

There were other Santas in other stores who were merely cheap imitations, not even fit to sweep reindeer crap off Rudolph's stable floor. The actors weren't fat enough, their suits were faded and their belly laughs lacked Christmas spirit. Frankly, their "ho-ho-ho-ing" had less ho's than a brothel.

One fellow who tried to pass himself off as Santa Claus left his post outside of a store and crossed the street to the courthouse square where he, in full view of us kiddies, wandered into a public restroom. That did it for us!

"He's not the real Santa Claus,"we agreed. "Everyone knows that Santa doesn't pee."

Probably the most entertaining Santa from my childhood was in another Iowa town. That community had a street corner Claus who rang a bell and gleefully handed out penny candies to passing children.

This Santa was portrayed by the son of one of the city policemen and he was so gleeful because he'd had a stiff snootful of whiskey prior to reporting for duty. That explained why he staggered up and down Main Street, and his season's greeting was loud and slurred and sounded like "Mrrry Clissy!" He was also the very first Santa I saw who threw up in his sack.

I know it was tough on my mother when she had to tell me there was really no Santa Claus. Years later, it was just as difficult for me to explain to my sons that the "jolly old elf" was a fabrication.

Although we walk our children through the Santa ritual to create for them joy and happiness in the Christmas season -- and I would never go back and undo that -- I still managed to feel as though a trust had been broken between parent and child when it came time to own up to the fact that Santa was merely an invention.

When the day of reckoning had arrived for my oldest son, he was shattered.

"And I suppose there's no Easter Bunny?" he asked, tearing up.

"No, son."

"And no tooth fairy?" he continued. "No more money for lost teeth?"

"That will now go toward your deductible." Then, after careful thought, I said, "And you know those stories we've been telling you about God?"

"WHAAATTT? NO GOD, EITHER?"

"Just kidding," I said. I reassured him that all was well with the Man Upstairs.

I've been pondering the Santa Claus fable. It makes the God story even more incredible, since there's no image, no tangible evidence, not even a staggering fake God who throws up in his sack. In a world of war and poverty, pandemics and grief, hate and hardship, it's astounding that billions continue to nurture an unshakeable belief in a Being in charge, silent and unseen. Especially considering how that absolutely wondrous red-suited man of our childhood Christmas dreams is only a myth.

Or is he?

 

 

Copyright 2004 by Wendel Potter