On a recent Wednesday in November around 11 a.m., Barbara, my wife, brought a grocery buggy to our car at Greer’s Walmart parking lot. With knee replacement surgery scheduled four months away, I left my walker in our car and pushed that buggy, hoped to find an electric cart inside the store. None was available.
Greer’s Walmart appears to maintain three carts. (An “EZ-Shopper Electric Grocery Cart” lists for $3,000 on the internet.) All were in use.
Barbara shopped as I waited for someone to return a cart to the in-store parking area near the regular grocery carts. A silver-haired lady on a silent, battery-powered cart soon coasted into the cart parking area.
“You need this?” She asked.
“Yes, thanks,” I said. “Bless you.”
“Bless you, too,” she said, sliding off the seat and hobbling away with a grocery bag.
A white-haired lady came in the front door with her husband who walked with a cane. They looked at my cart, but I pretended not to notice and raced at two-miles-per-hour to catch up with Barbara. I found her on the bread aisle.
Later, turning to follow Barbara down an aisle, I saw the man with a cane. His white-haired wife said to him, “There goes your cart.”
I felt guilty but ignored them. I appeared healthy and didn’t have a cane stuffed into the grocery cage on my cart, so I wondered if they thought I shouldn’t be riding. I’ve heard of teenagers getting carts like mine and whizzing through the store, giggling and causing accidents. I followed Barbara and suggested putting some items my cart’s basket, so I’d appear to be a legitimate shopper.
You get a different view when you’re riding a cart in the grocery store. You see products you don’t normally notice. I remember when my late wife, Carol, worked for Oroweat® Premium Breads. I’d hear her talk about the truck drivers’ tales of fighting for store shelf space. I guess “adult eye-level” is the best-selling space.
I felt like a child, looking up at shoppers and following Barbara. I probably didn’t have be in the store. Barbara could get the groceries by herself, but Walmart grocery shopping is sort of like a date for us. It’s togetherness. Next to home and church, our grocery store is a “comfort place.” We know the drill: start to the right at the green peppers and proceed down every aisle. It’s a bit like a stroll in the park, except it’s considered “work” and part of the chores of life.
We hit the ice cream aisle — one of my favorite aisles — and we know we’re almost at checkout. You always fear there’ll be lots of folk waiting at “the end of the trail,” but this time, it’s not too bad. Barbara wheels her cart up to a self-checkout terminal and begins the process. Me, I sit on my electric cart, feeling guilty because I’m just sitting. I hit the button that cuts off the power to the cart because I don’t want the battery to weaken while I’m waiting. I wonder if someone is over at the cart parking area, wondering where the carts are. Maybe their knees are paining, and they are desperate to sit down.
Barbara is methodical. Because I’m not helping, as I used to do before my knees went bad, she has to do all the grocery-handling. She’s swiping items across the horizontal screen, and prices are dinging onto the computer screen. Then, she’s bagging items; next, she’s placing bags into her cart. Finally, she’s done, and she pays with a credit card.
I turn on the battery power to my cart and back out of the checkout space — "beep, beep, beep" goes my cart, as it moves backward.
I move to the electric-cart parking area, hobble off the seat, and take hold of Barbara’s full grocery cart. I walk behind that cart as we head out the store door to our car. My knees are stiff from sitting on the electric cart. As we head home, I feel thankful that Walmart has electric carts for us old folk to ride, and I wonder if they’ll need to buy more of those carts as the population ages.
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