I was in Walmart a few days ago. The Christmas season is the best time to observe humanity at its finest and lowest and street-rat-crazy humans.
All the usual suspects were there. People dressed in bathrobes, onesie pajamas, and rabbit-eared bedroom slippers. One lady squeezed herself into an Elf costume four or five sizes too small. Her husband looked like Edger Alan Poe; all that was missing was the stuffed Raven on his shoulder. Another old lady had her grocery basket full of Mountain Dew and Pork Rinds, which is considered a food group in Appalachia and now in Granbury, Texas. Two little girls absconded bicycles from the toy department and were speeding down the isles terrorizing shoppers: their mother watched with an adoring smile as her little angels wreaked havoc: they likely received a small trophy when they got home. A crazed woman was ripping into the poor Pharmacist because he wouldn’t fill her prescription for Oxycodone; she clearly needed her medication; pulling her hair out in fistfuls didn’t help her cause.
One family, mom, pop, and the three kids pushed baskets with a flat-screen television for each member. What is the fascination with large televisions? Are we the only society that is addicted to electronics? The kids looked undernourished but had to have that TV instead of healthy food.
A lady and her young daughter, maybe five, passed by. They were both on their cell phones. Mama was engrossed in a personal conversation that should have been private, and the little girl was jabbering into her pink Barbie smartphone. I assumed the kid on the other end was about the same age since I couldn’t understand her words. Five-year-olds appear to have a unique language used to communicate with other children. When did giving a child barely out of diapers a smartphone become acceptable? As the song says, ” Only In America.”
Exiting the store, I looked for the Salvation Army and their red kettle. None to be found. The greeter lady said they should be showing up any day. I have childhood memories of my mother dropping change into that kettle as the kindly lady stood ringing her bell. In some years, it was a quarter; in better years, it might have been a dollar. She always had a change in her coin purse to help the less fortunate. I’ve continued that tradition every year of my adult life, stuffing a few dollars into that slot and hearing a “Merry Christmas and God bless you.” That’s when I knew it was Christmas time.
Notes From The Cactus Patch 