BorderWest

No More Costco, No More Sam’s Club

By Rebecca Powell, 7-08-08

	The Cursed Driveway

In Montana, Ponderosa Pines framed our view of Flathead Lake. Twelve miles from Kalispell, four from Lakeside, we shopped in bulk, always ready for a snowstorm or armageddon, whichever came first. For five to seven months a year, navigating our mile-long driveway induced swearing and cold sweats. The daunting task of fetching wood in January required donning long underwear, wool socks, a face mask, and two sets of gloves. Fleece was a main staple of my wardrobe. I judged our well-being not by the balance of our bank account, our spiritual enlightenment or the size of our social circle, but by the size of the woodpile and the level of food in the freezer.

Having a membership at Costco felt as Montanan as having a snow shovel. Our monthly trek to Costco was exciting and fulfilling. I do not want to think of what the previous sentence says about my existence in Montana. We would load the monster-size cart with berries, meats, the odd spice or two, a carton of a veggies and rice. Money would exchange hands. We would feel the surety of full cupboards and a stocked freezer. Come what may, we would not starve. Beyond weather, bulk grocery buying, like hunting, seemed part of the Montana experience. Our friends had memberships. We would see them walking Costco’s concrete floors with blissful smiles, dreaming of how the bulk brownie mix would better their lives. Costco specials showed up at get-togethers and church potlucks. It was as much a part of our rural way of life as protecting our gardens from deer.

In New Mexico, we live less than two miles from three different grocery stores. We can ride our bikes to our favorite, drink free coffee while we roam the aisles, hand samples of cheese to the boy, and snap up deals on discounted produce, meats, and dairy. We know the names of the clerks. They hand the boy chocolate. Our grocery shopping has turned from a once a month event to a bi-weekly habit of daily life. It takes less time, less thought, and less money than our bulk shopping of old. Pigeons and lizards are the biggest menace to my garden.

Still, Sam’s beckoned, the behemoth of bulk foods. We drove to the east mesa, an area of Las Cruces we rarely frequent.  A blast of air conditioning hits us as we enter the building, a reprieve from the 100 plus degree heat. Sam’s smells like Costco, of plastic wrap and cardboard. We grab a cart and head to the food section. The old favorites are here --fifteen chicken breasts packaged in styrofoam and plastic, Jimmy Dean sausage biscuits in a box, and tortilla chips in bags taller than the boy. The food is the same—the same packaging, the same brands, but my reaction is different.

I can get hormone-free chicken for the same price if I watch the sales. I have found breakfast burritos, a new way to clog my arteries. Goodbye, Jimmy Dean. And why in the world did I ever think I needed a 5-pound bag of chips?  The store feels like excess. It feels like a life I no longer live, and it is.

In our new life as city dwellers in the land of sun, bulk means rearranging the few kitchen cabinets we have. Bulk does not fit. We are no longer preparing for snow storms and armageddon. We no longer experience the peculiar satisfaction of full cupboards and ten cords of woods split and stacked. Our lives have taken on an urban flavor, where bulk means bulk, not an omen of future well-being.

I left Sam’s with a gallon of Extra Virgin Olive Oil, rearranged a cupboard, and felt the satisfaction of knowing that come what may we can drench it in oil. Old habits die hard.

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