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In days before supermarkets took AmEx and
Visa, you could count on a wad of S&H green
stamps, a handful of promises with bags of
groceries. I'd jam them in the drawer where
I keep instructions for the washer, oven,
vacuum, where I stash staplers, labels, tape,
confetti, where you still find car keys for long-
departed vehicles, Number Two pencils (erasers
chewed off), ticket stubs, unused postage,
the kind you had to lick. When my mother
came to visit, she'd take the green sheets
from the drawer, tsk-tsk at the mess, fill
a bowl with water, sponge the stamps, slap
them in redemption books until there were
enough to go to the S&H store on South
Street to choose a prize. For free! The first
time I redeemed, I came home with a Cuisinart
processor, only sixty books. That Thanksgiving
I pureed everything: Idahos, Brussels sprouts,
spinach, apples, turkey stuffing. (Our guests
asked if we had dental problems.) The next time
Mom put enough books together with rubber
bands I knew exactly what I wanted--—a brass
bed for the dog. This elegant piece of furniture
sported scrolled headboard and footboard, its
golden base supported a two-inch, terrier-tailored
mattress. When I pointed to the bed in the glossy
catalog, the agent told me it was a special order,
not in stock, why don't you take the bed on the shelf,
only six books, look how many you'll have left. When
I told her no, the dog deserved the brass bed (he
hadn't bitten anyone in months), she cupped her
hand on the right side of her mouth, told me
in secret, no one else should hear, especially
the dog (who wasn't there), it won't be here
for the holidays.
From Dear Kinfolk,(ChayaCairn Press, 2012).
Used with the author's permission.
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