GROCERY CART ART

THIS PIECE WAS FIRST PUBLISHED IN COUNTRY ACCENTS MAGAZINE

I was hoping to get an idea of what sort of paintings I wanted to buy for my home by leafing through an art catalog. That's when I noticed the painting of a child sitting next to a pretty woman on a park bench. There was something so familiar about the red hat the woman was wearing. Then it hit me. I used to own that painting! I scanned the catalog's page to find the name of the artist and there it was—Renoir! I used to own a Renoir!

My memory jogged by the catalog, I could envision that painting as it hung on my bedroom wall so many years ago. No other seven-year-old could have been as proud as I was the day I brought it home. I hung it over my bed and stared at that woman's smile for hours. I studied the way her brown hair curled under her red hat, and hoped I'd grow up to be as beautiful as she was.

I remembered clearly how I had come to own that painting: My dad and I were on one of our grocery shopping expeditions. We always used two grocery carts because we were working from a list designed to feed seven children and two adults for the week. Grocery shopping was a major chore then, and Dad and I were masters of it. I was Dad's eager student as I listened to him explain how important it was to figure out which brand of tuna was the cheapest. Dad marveled that I seemed to know instinctively which box of cereal would feed our family for the least amount of money. I can still hear him saying, “Some people go out to buy, while others go out and shop.” Then he'd look at me and smile. “We're shoppers,” he'd say, and I'd feel proud.

It was because of my bargain-hunting skills that Dad decided I was to be rewarded. The grocery stores often offered giveaway deals. The idea was to save up your register receipts and cash them in for a prize. Most months the prizes were dishes, towels, or maybe books, but that month the reward was paintings.

When dad came to the check-out line, he sent me to the crate of paintings stacked at the end of an aisle to pick out whichever one I wanted. I remember the rush of excitement I felt as I carefully sorted through the pile, taking my time to look at each painting before going on to the next. Dad was almost finished bagging our order when I spotted it—the painting I fell in love with. The woman with the red hat.

Little did I know then that my seven-year-old taste was for the work of a master. I have to laugh now that I think about how kids generally get their first glimpse of great art. A trip to the city to wander through a museum, maybe even an excursion of an exclusive gallery. Heck, others wait years to go to Europe to study great works of art. But not me. I got my first taste of culture at the A&P while my Dad bagged the family-size tub of chunky peanut butter. I don't know if this realization depresses me or shows how deeply ingrained my bargain-hunting gift truly is.

I do know one thing. Now when others reminisce, “when I was little...you could get gum for a penny,” or “candy bars were only a nickel back then,” I'm the only person I know who can say, “when I was a little girl you could get a genuine reproduction Renoir for only $75.00 worth of grocery receipts.”