The event that motivated me to write this piece occurred the other day when I had to go shopping at the grocery store and the pharmacy. My back has been “out” for quite a while, and I wanted to buy some heat wraps, so I went to the pharmacy. Yes, they had them, but for some sadistic reason they were located on the lowest shelf at floor level. I took the challenge, got down on my hands and knees, and bought a couple of boxes.
From there, I hobbled to the grocery store where I came across several more “interesting” situations. A few days earlier I had purchased a prepared container of General’s chicken at the deli — on sale — for $8.99/lb. This time I purchased another container of the exact same product for $8.99/lb. It was not on sale. This same store has now rearranged all its products on the shelves and has removed many of the brands they used to sell and replaced some of them with new brands. It’s like playing hide-and-seek when you go in.
While I was writing the above, what’s left of my 81-year-old mind drifted back to my childhood and what I believe was the first solo shopping experience of my life.
Bear with me here. I will return to shopping in a moment.
Spring training has begun. I can almost hear the crack of the bat up here. Having been brought up in The Bronx in the ’50s, baseball was my religion. Since my dad was an obnoxious Yankee fan, I became a Brooklyn Dodger fan — until Walter O’Malley moved them to Los Angeles. He will never be forgiven.
The great Red Barber, broadcaster for “The Bums,” had wonderful phrases which he sprinkled in during a game — “Rhubarb,” a fight; “Tearin’ up the pea patch,” excitement on the field; “Oh doctor,” a surprise; “Sittin’ in the catbird seat,” in control; and “It’s as easy as opening a can of corn,” catching an easy pop fly.
Which naturally brings me back to shopping.
I was 10 years old. It was Saturday morning, and I was off to the schoolyard to play ball with my friends. Then my mom, “sittin’ in the catbird seat,” told me to go to the store and get some groceries for dinner. “Oh doctor.” A “rhubarb” was brewin’. In the end, I had to go to the store. Sure, the errand was “a can of corn,” but my friends were waiting for me at the “pea patch.”
Where did the phrase “can of corn” come from? There are several explanations, but I like this one best. My uncle had a small grocery store in Brooklyn and we used to drive out there to shop and say, “Hi.” Like other small stores of that era, he had goods shelved from floor to ceiling. The cans of corn were on the top shelf. He would reach up with a stick, knock a can down, and catch it in his apron. “It’s as easy as catching a can of corn.” Play ball.
Jonathan Kahane lives in Westhampton.