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Category: Tales from the Co-op
13 years at one job computes to a crap ton of stories.
I hear a lot of people dreading Christmas, hating Christmas, saying the gift giving isn’t what it’s about. And while that’s true, I hope these people realize that getting back to the true meaning of Christmas starts within yourself. I hope that they pick a child off the Angel Tree, or volunteer with a Food Pantry, or some other selfless act. It WILL change your heart. Last week at work, this couple came up to the counter, inquiring about a discount if they bought several pairs of boots. They said six pairs. So we offered them the same discount we had on Black Friday, including 50% off our closeouts, which are already marked down. They bought fourteen pairs. They were at the counter for awhile, as you can imagine, as we were checking sizes & whatnot. They explained what they were doing. They were from North Carolina & it all started four years ago. A few members in their church are teachers & brought up the subject of a few of the underprivledged children in the community. These teachers had an inkling that some students weren’t getting anything to eat over the weekend. They thought the only food these children received was at school. So it came about that the church was making up sack lunches for these kids to take home over the weekend. It wasn’t much, like a can of soup or a sandwich, some…
We all serve a purpose. For some of us, it’s something dignified, like, you’re the voice of reason in a family crisis. You don’t take sides. Or you’re the one who gives out advice on retirement in your family without having to consult the aloof bank people. Or you’re a healer of sorts, with your special teas and ointments. Whatever it may be. For ages, people called me when they saw horse loose within a ten mile radius of my house. Everybody knew I had horses because I was forever out front riding them. Those days, for the most part, have passed. Then came the confusing phone calls from friends who had too much to drink and knew I was home, sober, tight in my bed, because I had a job that required my presence early in the morning. I was the responsible, dependable one for a long time. Then came the calls that I was paid to take, not really expected, mind you, but the ones with true emergencies: car wrecks, fires, seizures. Lord, at the seizures. I had a friend who called me once, freaking out because her baby was coming early. I was at a loss, no checklist chart in front of me, instead, enjoying a sunny summer afternoon tending my flowerbeds. But I got her through it, talked her down as she drove her panicked self to the hospital. Not two years…
Our big shindig for the Co-op was last night. We’re a pretty mild sort, but we always manage to have a good time. I really wasn’t sold on going this year, as it was on my day off & I like to hermit up, but J enjoys it more than me. He says we’re “a good crowd”. He doesn’t see everybody daily like I do, so I put our names on the list. Just about everyone always shows up. And we all try to dress up, even if it’s just our best boots, jeans, & a button up or sweater. Last night was no exception. In the past, we’ve had our picture taken (by yours truly) in front of the Christmas tree wherever we were, played a game, sang a song, or just had general merriment & fellowship. We have had our annual get together in several locations over the years, from the back room at Golden Corral, to Cowboys on the lake, to the Legion building, to River Plantation’s meeting hall, to right here at the Co-op. We’ve been so poor some years that the Christmas dinner has been a potluck. And that’s ok. The food isn’t what’s important. The catching up with your coworkers about non-related Co-op stuff is what counts. And to see their families growing. I remember the year of our renovation; we didn’t really even have a Christmas…
A new white F250 pulls up to the front doors. I get excited like a puppy. “Is that Shannon? Do you think he brought me food?” Shannon is a horse customer of mine who hails from New Orleans. He is an amazing cook of all things Cajun & occasionally brings me treats. “No, he’s wearing a cowboy hat, it’s not Shannon.” Another one of my regulars comes through the door. “I like your brush guard,” I tell him, then realize how ridiculous this would sound at any other job/ store. So I had to share. You can giggle, ‘s alright…
I don’t understand the concept of entitlement. For example, commending someone for not stealing. Almost every day, someone comes to the counter to pay for some bolts. Some of them can get fairly expensive, as far as bolts go, & it never fails that someone says, “I could’ve stuck these in my pocket, you would have never known.” While that’s true, the Good Lord would know. And it’s wrong. I’m not going to thank you for not stealing. If you’ll steal a bolt, you’ll steal a car. I could set the Co-op on fire, too, but I choose not to do so. It’s wrong. What the heck?! 11-17-15 11:16 am…
Clint & I ordered the same shirts this go round. Not on purpose. I discovered this when he wore his a while back. So this morning, I asked John, who had been upstairs, if we were wearing the same shirt. John carefully looked at me. “Yes, but he’s not wearing that headband.” So I call Clint. “What are you wearing?” “A long sleeved button up shirt.” “Is it the small navy & white check?” “Yes.” “We’re Twinkies. I’ll be up for a photo shoot directly.” Luckily, I had another matching headband, & somehow coerced him into putting it on. Ladies & gentlemen, CEO of Sevier Farmers Coop, & yours truly. p.s. He said the only time anybody wants their picture with him is to make themselves look better. I told him not to worry, it was not a flattering picture of me; my hair’s weird & my face is scrunched up because I was laughing so hard at his Lt. Dan headband…
I have a friend who is married to a farmer. They are raising their boys among the cows & corn. The boys have calves they bottle feed & sell, they have horses they check fences astride. They enjoy the day to day life of being outside, helping their daddy tend to the newly born, the ailing, the healthy. One day, I was disheartened to read on Facebook about how one of their sons was being ridiculed at school. A schoolmate called him poor because he lives on a farm. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Trust me, farmers aren’t poor. They meet struggle every day of their life. They are up against it at least fifty percent of the time. Imagine if your livelihood was dependent upon the weather. If it doesn’t rain one day & the sun shine the next, you might be looking for a job in town. And then when hay is ready to cut to feed the cows all winter, you pray for three straight days hot & clear. To get your hay to grow, it must be fertilized. Fertilizer runs around $500 a ton. One ton will fertilize roughly seven acres. If your fields yield well, seven acres of hay will produce maybe 100 rolls of hay. A cow will eat half a roll a day in the wintertime if their pasture is thin. You figure four months of winter, which is 120 days. If you have thirty cows, that…
Some of my customers I dearly love, some I’d dearly love to kill. This morning, I waited on a few I love. First thing was Hugh Manis, whom I’ve waited on for years. I attended his church (Seymour First Baptist) for awhile, & sat with him & his wife nearly every time. When you get married, generally if it’s a Christian ceremony, the preacher will ask you to hold the couple accountable. The union of two people coming together is a Holy bond & to keep them in your prayers for a strong, healthy marriage. The people gathered include some of the ones who love you best & dearest, so it’s easy for them to make that promise. But I have found that it’s some of my older male customers that hold me accountable, that they ask how my husband’s doing, or, more commonly, “Are you still married?” When I answer to the affirmative, it’s usually followed by, “He’s a good man.” I don’t argue with that statement. Anyway, I’m helping Mr. Manis carry out his purchases this morning (he walks on a cane, so I help him if his son doesn’t accompany him) & he asks me, “Where are you & your husband going to church now?” Now, Johnny & I never attended FBS together. I went alone. But he’…
I was waiting on the wife of one of my regular customers today. She’s always super sweet, & I’m invariably glad to see her. “Yankee,” I began, “her daddy was one of my regulars when I first started working down here. I didn’t know what to think of him. He used to say, ‘who’s your momma?’ All the time & tell me when I got married I was gonna hafta wash the skidmarks out of my husband’s drawers!” Yankee’s eyes got rounder. Clearly, she wouldn’t have known how to take him, either. I smiled at Miss Tammy, his daughter. “But I came to love him. He was a nice man.” She nodded. “Daddy was. I remember too, you & another girl from down here came to his funeral.” I paused. I had forgotten about that. “Yeah, me & Skeeter came. It was probably the first funeral I attended on my own.” (Meaning, without my family) I recall Shanea & I talking ourselves into going. We felt that we needed to. “My husband says I go to more funerals than anybody he knows,” I told Tammy. “But he understands now that my customers are like my family… They’ve seen me grow up, in a way. I don’t necessarily like to go, but I need to.” “…
I have just come from yet another funeral. Now this one was a little different. It was like others in the respect that the deceased was a senior citizen, and someone I knew through work, and there was no shortage of familiar faces paying respects. The difference was, I stood in line sniggering the whole time. I couldn’t help it. And yes, there’s a difference between snickering & sniggering. Snickering is when you’re laughing with somebody about something (or someone) but you’re trying not to. Sniggering is lower in the gut & deeper & knowing you shouldn’t be laughing & trying to stop. I thankfully got to Tuletta quickly & apologized, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I COULDN’T HELP IT. Tuletta’s mother was one of the biggest practical jokesters I’ve ever met & every picture they showed of her you could tell she was into some sort of trickery or meanness. Bows on her head, britchie leg yanked up, fluttering eyelashes behind Greta Garbo sunglasses. I kept getting tickled. The pictures made me think of my own memories…she was one of those ladies who carried her possessions in her bra. She’d embarrass Tuletta to death when they’d stop to get a biscuit before work & Hazel would whip out a roll of money from her cleavage. Tuletta was always afraid she’d go to diggin…
