More Shopping for My Parents

“Will you get me some Hydrangeas’ John”? She takes one look at my face.  “Do you know what a Hydrangea is? My friend Maresa got one in Super Valu and she said it’s lovely. Just a few for the garden”?. ‘ Ok yeah, I’ll have a look’ I nodded knowing that having a look was going to be the last thing I would be doing. In the list of priorities, Hydrangea is not even making the list never mind being low down on it.

Besides, I have a reputation to keep. What if someone sees me buying Hydrangeas? Any delusional thoughts I have of me being cool and not the middle-aged midlife crisis that in reality I am, will surely be buried in the aisles of Tesco as I lug around a collection of Hydrangeas. 

While this has been going on Dad has continued talking. We’re used to this as he’s a bit of a talker so you don’t really have to tune in at all times because what could be said in one sentence usually takes about an hour of round the house ramblings with tangents to far off places. He asks me if I remember someone and I pretend I do when I really have no idea who he is talking about. “Oh Yeah, I remember him”. That is all that is needed for him to keep talking for at least another ten minutes. It works for everyone and there is a real chance I’ve heard the story before about 9000 times. 

Their Jack Russel Lucy has now buried herself in the hedge. I surmise she might be looking for bird eggshells that have dropped down to the ground. Dad is quick to correct me, pointing to where the birds do nest and not where I had suggested. I stand corrected. The dog cares less and continues to burrow into the hedge with her bum to us in an act of indifference. 

Amidst Dad’s chatter he remembers something. ‘Oh hold on a second, wait there’ I have something’. And off he shuffles into the house. Mum looks at him throwing her eyes up to heaven in a gesture that suggests as much love as it does frustration. ‘ What now’ shes says. 

He reappears moments later with newspaper cuttings. I’ve been getting newspaper cuttings from my parents for about 20 years now. Dad is meticulous in his newspaper cuttings. You would think he had some industrial-sized cutting machine that allowed him to extract articles with clinical precision. But no, they are all done by hand in what is a skill that has been crafted down the years of passing paper cuttings to his children.

A skill no doubt passed on from his own parents. I remember paper cuttings strewn about the kitchen of my grandparent’s country home in County Cavan all those years ago. They used to cut the paper into neat squares to be used as toilet paper. Not something my 1980’s suburban bottom was accustomed to and something I found quite uncomfortable if not a bit risky. Trust me.

He then proceeds to lay each newspaper cutting on the hedge and tell me about it in full detail so that I really no longer have to read the article. I gratefully accept them and know that the time and effort put into cutting them out is nothing but love in action. Love wanting to express itself in the only way it knows how. Given that hugging and actually saying I love you was beyond the capabilities of many when he was growing up in 1950’s rural  Ireland.  

‘Right so do you need anything else.’?” No that’s it for now thanks John.” ‘Ok see you in a bit’ I say before straddling the gate so that the dog doesn’t escape off down the road. 

I like shopping for my parents. It has a sense of adventure about it, and I’m good at it. The challenge is to get everything on the list. Most days I do quite well. Yesterday though was particularly challenging. Mum’s handwriting would baffle even the most experienced military code breaker. I tend to pick out letters and try and match them up into something coherent. But today’s’  list had me stumped. What the hell is demure sugar? Am I going to have to coax it off the shelf? What does one do with demure sugar? 

Forgoing all pride, ego, and furthering my demise into middle age I took the unthinkable step of asking a member of staff. I didn’t think 12-year-olds were allowed work in supermarkets but there she was. I sheepishly held out my parents crumpled shopping list pointed to the word and said ’eh do you know what dem dem dem sugar is” ?!  raising my eyebrows in hope and embarrassment. She looked at me with eyes that simply said ‘saddo’.  Then led me to a shelf only meters away and pointed at the depressing looking bags of demerara sugar. ‘ Oh I said’ ‘Thanks,’ as she returned back to her shelf packing with a newfound enthusiasm. 

I now had everything on the list. All I need to do is get it past the self check out and I’m home free. ‘Item not recognised in the bagging area’ item not recognized in the bagging area. Oh, sweet Jesus get me out of here. I feel like all the lights have been turned off and someone has switched on the most powerful spotlight directly above me. ‘ item not recognised in the bagging area’. I don’t think telling the machine to ‘fuck off” will actually work but it’s all I’ve got at this moment. 

I manage to move the shopping around just enough to fool the machine into allowing me to pay for the shopping. I exit Super Valu like a bat out of hell, knowing that all I now have to do now is dodge a hoard of joggers, walkers, dogs, family cycling pelotons and people who clearly haven’t ridden a bike in 30 years on the drive home to make it back to the safety of my parents garden. 

Relieved, I lay all their shopping I’ve managed to pile into one reusable bag on the ground. I ring the doorbell and make my retreat into the garden. Mum appears at the door and looks at the bag on the ground. ‘Oh, John you’re a pet. Thank you’.  

We look at each other and both know there are no hydrangeas hiding in the bottom of that bag but of course Mum doesn’t mention it. I smile and know I’ll get them for her tomorrow when no one is looking.