BUNA MEMORIES—“Grandma and the Grapes Episode” As I wrote in a previous article, my paternal grandmother Elizabeth “Lizzie” McKinley stood about 4 ft. 11 inches, and during her younger years, I was often reminded, she had—and exhibited often—the fierce Irish temper that she had inherited from her McCary ancestors who immigrated to the United States prior to the American Revolution. In fact, two of them, Richard McCary, Jr. and his father, Richard McCary, Sr., enlisted in Virginia and served in the Continental Army. Although she was at times a little rough around the edges, she had a soft spot for all of her grandchildren. When I was a kid, many a time she approached me with her hand extended. “Son,” she’d say, “I want you to have this dollar bill.” And she’d continue, “But please don’t tell any of your cousins, because I don’t have a whole lot of money to do it for all of them.” It was not until years later that I learned that she did that for every one of us. I always found that amazing especially when considering that she lived most of her life with my grandfather, raising eight children, and grubbing out a living on a poor dirt farm in San Augustine, Texas. Moreover, she never received a penny of financial assistance from social security, because neither of them ever qualified. She did, however, benefit from some county assistance program after she became widowed, but that total was less than $70 per month. Whether by choice or necessity, Grandma was about the closest thing to a vegetarian that I ever knew, since I only saw her eat crispy fried bacon and occasionally, a fried chicken wing. The majority of her food intake consisted of vegetables and fruits. Of the fruit category, she enjoyed grapes most, and the variety didn’t matter in the least. Immediately before my grandfather passed away in 1959, they came to visit us for about a week when the family lived in Buna. And after a couple of days, Grandma called out to me. “Son,” she asked, “is there any place around here where a person can buy grapes?” “Yes, Grandma,” I answered, “those can be had at either Ellison’s Grocery or Ted Kaine’s.” With that, she handed some change to me—around a dollar the best I recall—and asked me to get some for her. So, I straddled my usual form of transportation, an old trusted bicycle, and headed up the road toward Ellison’s Grocery. I went back to the produce aisle and then to the cashier, where I paid for the product which I dutifully carried back to Grandma who eagerly waited at the front door. After I handed the change and bag of grapes to her, suddenly from out of nowhere, she expressed loudly, “You didn’t bring back enough change!” “But that’s all there is, Grandma,” I argued, but no matter, she kept repeating that something was drastically wrong. There’s no denying that she was extremely miffed. “Well then, I’ve been gypped [the vernacular for CHEATED]!” she said. “You need to take me up to that store, so’s I can find out what’s goin’ on.” Needless to say, under those tense conditions, I didn’t argue one smidgen. I grabbed the car keys. Grandma, still in a huff, got into the car, and off we went to conduct an in-depth investigation into her perceived notion that Ellison’s Grocery had just contrived one of the worst instances of financial malfeasance in Buna history. When we arrived at the store, I started to open the car door. That’s when my blood turned cold. “Son,” she asked, “who owns this store anyway?” “Ben Ellison.” “Do you know him?” “Yes, Grandma. Why?” “I want you to point him out to me.” Again, I didn’t argue. It would have been useless anyway. When we walked in, I asked Grandma to wait until I found Mr. Ellison. Luckily, he was alone, at the back of the store, opening boxes and stocking shelves. “Mr. Ellison,” I said, “my grandma McKinley wants to talk to you, but please understand, at times she has a real short fuse. There’s no telling what she’s gonna say, OR HOW, she’s gonna say it.” “That’s okay, Fred,” he said. “Let’s go and find out.” Mr. Ellison walked up to Grandma, politely introduced himself, and asked how he could be of service. “Well, Mr. Ellison, either we have a real problem with the price of your grapes, or your store clerk shorted me.” She continued, “but I would prefer not to call you a thief!” I cringed. Without batting an eyelash, Ben Ellison asked, “Mrs. McKinley, where do you usually buy your grapes, and how much do you pay per pound?” “At Piggly Wiggly, up in San Augustine—and they only charge me 10 cents a pound.” “We get a little more than that; most times, we sell them for 14.” Grandma looked at him sternly, and remarked, “That’s the highest price for grapes that I ever heard of!” This time, I really cringed! But the expected didn’t happen, and Mr. Ellison quickly—and wisely—diffused the situation. “If that’s the case, Mrs. McKinley,” he said, “I’m gonna charge you exactly 10 cents. I’ll gladly match Piggly Wiggly’s price.” And that’s exactly what this astute store owner did. Mr. Ellison turned toward me and winked. The three of us walked up to the store cashier, and he directed to her, “When Mrs. McKinley comes in and buys grapes, you are never to charge her more than 10 cents a pound.” Grandma smiled widely. She thanked Mr. Ellison for his kindness, and the extra change refund that the cashier just handed to her. When we got back home, she said, “Son, I sure do like that man.” Ben Ellison, with superb people and marketing skills, had in fact become her new best friend—and her favorite grocer. And as I think back, he had used early on the current phenomenon—“Price-Matching Policy Guarantee”—long before Walmart ever existed.
Posted on: Wed, 10 Sep 2014 17:07:34 +0000
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