In Dad's Kitchen

Dad and Mitzie in the kitchen. 2007

If I hadn't known about the tumor, I would have thought he had just returned from the Bahamas. The mottled brown skin, a side effect of chemotherapy, belonged to a polo-wearing executive not my father.

Protruding collarbones and sagging skin under his jaw were evidence of the thirty pounds he had lost since surgery. A diminished sense of taste ruined his appetite so meals were various flavors of Boost, a highly caloric protein drink. His mouth was persistently dry and he spoke with a slight slur, as though his tongue were thick.

I looked forward to summer visits with Dad. I would sit on a stool in the kitchen while he and my stepmother rinsed, chopped, and sautéed vegetables in tandem, deftly avoiding each other as they changed stations in the small space. Meals would cover the 3’ by 3’ island and the kids could choose what to put on their plates. Afterwards, dirty dishes disappeared in a blink. I gave no thought to what we would eat at Dad’s; they enjoyed cooking, there was always plenty to eat and it was always good. I had a front row seat at a cooking show.

This summer my stepmother was out of town on a previously scheduled trip. Dad spent most of his time in the living room watching MSNBC, drinking Boost and would retire early. The kids’ dirty drink glasses sat on the island where they’d left them hours earlier. As I loaded them into the dishwasher and searched for detergent I thought how unnatural it felt to clean up, as if my dad and stepmother didn’t exist.

Years earlier, after my parents’ divorce, visits with Dad meant eating homemade lasagna instead of Campbell's Bean with Bacon soup. As I rummaged through his refrigerator and cabinets it dawned on me that the preparation and enjoyment of food was how we connected; it was an expression of love.

Conversation came easily when he cooked. We talked politics and he shared stories from his firefighting days. When asked about his childhood and deceased parents he shared that his maternal grandfather operated a fishery in the early 20^th century. He told the story of how his father, as a member of the Canadian Expeditionary Force during WWI, earned medals for bravery and showed them to the boys. Dad was a natural storyteller.

My boys have come to expect things when they visit their grandpa- fireworks on the patio, playing baseball and soccer in the large yard and hitting golf balls off the neighbor’s tee onto the flats of the Black River. When Dad whipped up a batch of Jiffy Mix waffles, the boys cheered, and breakfast at Grandpa Eddie’s was confirmed as part of our summer visit tradition. For me, it was an appreciated sliver of normalcy.

Dad is on the mend and I’m grateful. His positive attitude enables him to take the cancer in stride. The tumor is gone but so is a cherished part of our relationship. My hope is that it is temporary.

The Sears Roebuck Diaries: Teen Employment Adventures in the Infants Department

Infants Department

Installment 2

The ubiquitous onesie was one of the most popular items in the infants department. At sixteen I had no experience with babies but I quickly learned that the bottom snaps on onesies were like an oxygen tank to a scuba diver.

Customers constantly opened the packages to see how big the products were. Didn’t matter if the same brand, same size was already on the floor under the rack. Upon seeing the shiny three pack, customers reached and ripped. Every night I would fold, roll and cram the onesies into what was left of their packaging. I replaced them on their hooks where they would hang for months, distressed like Courderoy, their chances of a Lisa taking them home slim-to-none.

The other most popular item was cribs. Sears had several on display and customers went down the row giving each a violent shake. Then, with the same false confidence displayed by tire kickers in a used car lot, they would pronounce the cribs too rickety.

I would think, ‘Wow! You're right. No one’s ever done that before!’ but I would roll up my sarcastic tongue, unfurl my graciousness and say, “A lot of customers come through here and shake the cribs. A new one out of the box would be sturdier.”

Though I assured customers I didn’t work on commission, I was still eyed with mistrust. That is until I demonstrated the foot release bar on the drop-side cribs. "Ooohhh!" They would nod, marvel at the convenience and then ask about other features.

Then there was the day I wore a Winnie the Pooh mascot costume as part of a store event. The costume was designed for a person six inches taller than me and, with its wool fabric, was a portable sauna. On my 5’4” frame Winnie's legs rippled like ribbon candy. The cavernous headpiece gave me tunnel vision so the assistant manager led Stumpy the Pooh through the store and discreetly indicated the direction in which I was to kindly gesture to customers because I wasn’t allowed to speak. If you know me then you can imagine just how difficult it was to keep my mouth shut for seven hours. The only other times I’ve accomplished this I was asleep.

The Sears Roebuck Diaries: Teen Employment Adventures

The Boys Department

Installment 1

For the past several years I've read in the news that teenagers are finding it hard to compete for summer jobs (I'd cite sources but have yet to read an article in the Washington Post and then find it online). This got me thinking, in a David Sedaris sort of way, about my work experiences as a teen. Did tending french fry baskets at McDonald's and wiping facial oil off telephone earpieces in office buildings render me employable?

Like most teenagers I knew I left babysitting behind to work at the mall.  Using stringent selection criteria I chose Livonia Mall because it contained the soft pretzel stand I loved to visit when shopping with my mom as a little girl. Sears was an anchor store there and I landed a job working between nine and 12 hours a week in the children's department. I met people from all walks of life, some of whom I was relieved to see keep on walking.

In the 80’s Back to School sales started in August, not June, so customers arrived in a blitz. The navy blue pants popular with parochial school boys sold out in a flash. Sears never ordered more so the shelves remained barren for weeks. It was the moms who worked out to Jane Fonda who emerged from the racks victoriously clutching the last pairs of Toughskins. 

One mommy-come-lately was apoplectic. She accused me of hiding inventory in the stock room for the benefit of friends and family. Yes, lady, my minimum wage job at Sears was a front for a more lucrative black market parochial school uniform business. Why else would I tolerate a job where little boys use the fitting room as a urinal?

I spent most of my time on the floor rehanging and refolding clothes, but I also worked the CAC, or Central Aisle Cashier, station.  As the name suggests, we stood corralled in the middle of the department, a beacon for customers in need of therapists. Working the register was easy, so long as merchandise had tags and customers didn’t pay with Mastercard or Visa. 

“What? You only accept cash, Discover and American Express? Are you serious?”
“Sears owns Discover. It’s the only card to give you cash back. And my name’s not Serious.”

I tried to be sympathetic but the lines could get long, especially at Christmas.  Some nights I wouldn’t get home until 10pm with homework still looming. Like a member of the proletariat, I regurgitated the Roebuck line and daydreamed about easier ways to earn spending money. May I help the next customer in line?

Next installment – Infants Department