What would the grandmas say? And do?
Joseph Mackereth
Y’all, I have an embarrassing confession to make. I have a problem and I need help. I am addicted. Hello, my name is Molly and I am an Amazonaholic. The first step towards healing is recognizing that you have a problem, right? Well, I am up to my eyeballs in problems here.
It started out simple enough. I live way out in the country in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley and the local grocery store doesn’t carry my favorite products. In fact, when my little grocery starts carrying a great product, they carry it for three months—the minimum time to make me love and even crave an item—and then they discontinue it. It’s like they’re watching my loyalty account and as soon as I buy something regularly, BAM, discontinued.
That’s okay because I can just order it off of Amazon and it’s here in a couple of days. So that seedless black raspberry jam that I adore and can never find can magically be in my pantry in just two days. Boom! It’s a brave new world. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, that I can not possess now because it’s all available to order, with free shipping, from the ballooning behemoth known as Amazon.
That’s how it started. Innocently enough, ordering my favorite jam. If only that’s where it had ended. Oh no. I started to browse. When browsing, you find the most interesting things. Useful things. Taking you down the rabbit-hole-of-spending things. I ordered cases of my favorite green chili stew from New Mexico. I ordered special shoes for work that help with heel pain. I ordered everything I could find related to Harry Potter because I am a huge fan. I ordered a Japanese pruning saw because my Wedgewood lilac bush needs to be cut back. This is fun. I am finding wonderful things from the comfort of my sofa and unwrapping boxes of goodies two days later. It’s Christmas every day.
The problem with Christmas every day is that it’s not Santa’s credit card that’s popping for the prezzies. It’s mine. And my credit card is wheezing from overuse. Then the pandemic happened and I was at home, me and my computer, looking for projects, entertainment, and fulfillment. Ta da! Amazon. My credit card officially died from overuse in 2021. Still, I did not recognize that this behavior might be a problem until the incident with the table.
When you walk in my front door (where packages are left) you walk through the living room, into the dining room where my great-grandmother’s quarter-sawn oak table with the gorgeous carved lion’s feet on the legs sits in all its glory. It’s an empty flat surface. It’s a lovely, polished, sentimental, cherished piece of furniture, but more importantly, it’s an empty flat surface. Perfect for tossing/piling Amazon boxes on.
I cannot tell you which box broke the camel’s back, but I think it might have been the case of toilet paper when stores were empty of it, balanced on top of the other boxes that hadn’t been put away yet, that was the culprit. I balanced the box on top of the others on the table and heard a pop and then a crack and then the table listed heavily to one side as one of the beautiful lion legs had broken.
You don’t understand. This was my great-grandmother’s table. My grandmother inherited it and spent an entire summer removing mint green oil-based paint from this table and lovingly restored it to its quarter-sawn beauty. It had seen so many meals, thousands of biscuits, loads of family meetings, it had been integral to our family life for decades. I was so happy to inherit it from my grandma. It’s one of my best possessions and I had ruined it through consumerism.
What would my grandmothers say? Well, were they still here we would be having a stern conversation around the table if we could still sit around the table, but no, I had broken it. My grandmothers were frugal people, Victory garden girls before it was mandated, and did not waste a thing. Everything was recycled, reused, or remembered fondly. The fact that I had cracked the table would be offense enough but to do it because I’d bought too many things, well that would be a shocking insult to them. I simply cannot argue to defend myself. Even saying “but it was a pandemic” to women who’d survived world wars, influenza devastation, and a depression seems a puny excuse.
Since there are no official Amazon Anonymous meetings in my area, and I can’t order one off of Amazon, then I think I am going to model my grandmothers’ behavior and values. What would Sallie and Miss Lillian do? They’d rinse the can, stomp on it to flatten it, and recycle the aluminum. They’d mend the shirt. They’d eat the leftovers. They’d grow what they could and preserve it. They’d save for a rainy day.
This is it. WWSAMLD? What would Sallie and Miss Lillian do? They’d not be on Amazon ordering a hat for the dog, that’s what. Put down the mouse and step away from the screen. While you’re at it, fix the table.
The story above first appeared in our March / April 2023 issue. For more like it subscribe today or log in with your active BRC+ Membership. Thank you for your support!