Shopping

The shopping gene is rampant in our family, but it skipped my generation. Burnout occurred before I was school age. A couple of times a year, Mom and I visited her parents in Omaha. Much of the time was spent downtown, with my mother scurrying from store to store while Grandma and I trailed behind, because our short legs couldn’t keep up. Grandma, all the while scolding her daughter, “Wilma, slow down!” Most of the stops involved dressing rooms, where I was stuffed into scratchy garments and made to stand in front of a mirror and listen to critique by Mom and Grandma. If approval was given, I had the horror of knowing I would actually have to wear that outfit numerous times. It didn’t matter if I liked the dress (I never liked dresses anyway) or the color. Everything hinged on adult decisions.

To this day, it’s all I can do to make myself go to the grocery store. That said, many of my friends are shoppers, as is my daughter, her daughter and granddaughter. The family contingent from Montana and Wyoming was visiting last week, and we went out and about. We did support some local businesses, and they made a run to Cherry County to visit other family members, so that included Valentine shopping.

This week, friends from South Dakota are here and they will want to shop. One of those ladies is a horse enthusiast and a bookworm, so her trips always include a stop in Valentine at the bookstore and Youngs Western Wearhouse. But we will make the rounds locally while they are here, and catch the coffee and gift shop in Hemingford. The latter is one place where I can kill a considerable amount of time myself. Greenhouses are another weakness of mine, but that season is past, so the wallet is safe.

I suppose the reason I’m okay with shopping at those venues is that there’s no need to try anything on. I think it was Mark Twain who warned to beware of any occasion that requires new clothes, and for my money, he was on target.

My children’s father liked to shop, and he had good taste, so I was well dressed without the torture of having to enter stores. Bruce can spend a lot of time shopping, often for fishing or kitchen gear, and I’m content to sit in the car and read while he wanders.

But the neighbor has a pasture full of red heifers that are as even as peas in a pod, and as classy as a Cadillac. I can’t drive past without drooling and wondering what he’d take for them, all the while knowing I couldn’t afford anything that nice even if I was still in the cattle business.

As my other Granny always said, “there’s no accounting for some people’s taste.” Trouble is, where cattle are concerned I had a champagne taste and a beer pocketbook. Mom was a fan of window shopping too, and that must be what I’m doing.

Meet me here next week and meanwhile, do your best. Somebody might like it.