Retail Therapy

My mother was a super shopper. There was no abuse my father could heap on her, no inconsideration her children could bestow upon her, that could not be solved by buying something.

She swallowed capitalism and merchandising hook, line, sinker. She owned trinkets that, had we lined them side by side, would have stretched at least across the state. Maybe into Florida, I don't know.

Her clothes closet would have outfitted about three high schools when she died. She had blouses and pants hanging in the closet with the tags still on them, things she bought and never wore.

Goodwill is probably still selling her clothes even though it's been years since I handed my half over to them.

She shopped in shoes that made my feet hurt simply to look at them. No sneakers for her - she went in heels. Sometimes her feet ached, so she'd slip her shoes off and roam the mall barefooted, putting her shoes back on to enter stores.

She bought what I call "sitty-around" stuff and clothes, mostly. She did not buy art or things that would acquire value; she bought mass-produced beauties, glass things that would one day be broken. She had a collection of glass bells and a collection of glass birds and a collection of cheap carnival glass.

She collected things that make you blink and wonder who ever thought of creating such a thing in the first place.

When she was alive my closet was much better equipped than it is now, because she was always buying me clothes too. I confess I mostly did not appreciate the clothes and I seldom wore them. This is because, while my mother dressed exquisitely, it wasn't my style. I look very conservative but have a bohemian heart while my mother dressed flashy and had a movie star heart.

The two us rarely agreed in the dressing room, I have to say.

I hated to shop and still do. My mother dragged me after her for years when I was a child and a teen. She spent hours looking at clothes on the racks. She knew where all the sales were and where to buy practically anything in Roanoke.

I know I stood and whined pitifully when I was 10 and stood mulishly silent when I was 15. I did not understand how tightly the grip of purchasing was wrapped around her throat, er, pocketbook.

She lost me numerous times. I learned at a very young age to find a sales clerk and ask her to page my mother on the loudspeaker when my efforts to locate her set my eyes to overflowing. "There's a little girl here who's lost her mother. She says her name is ...." the voice would magically yell across Leggett's or Woolworth's.

My mother would come fetch me, her mouth set tightly. She'd grab my hand and scold me for running off and embarrassing her. I think it usually ended up in a whipping that I never thought I deserved because I didn't run off. I just turned around and she was gone, off in her shopping zone, her nose sniffing out a clearance rack.

No wonder I don't like to shop.

As Black Friday evolved into a kind of post-Thanksgiving freak show, my mother took notice. When the stores started opening early, she started driving in to town in the wee hours.

If she were alive today, she'd be marveling at the fact that she could be at J.C. Penney's at 4 a.m. on Friday morning.

I will still be in bed at 4 a.m. on Friday morning.

Capitalism is not democracy, though in this country the two seem to be as married as any old farmer and his wife. However, we don't have to buy things. Going shopping does not save the country.

In this day and age, I think my main job is to hold on to my money, while the job of everyone else is to take it away from me.

I am outnumbered by a billion to one.

My mother thought her job was to spend money.

She and the other billion got along just fine.