By the time we got to the grocery store at 4:30 a.m. last Saturday in hopes of catching whatever new stock had come in overnight, a line had formed near the locked entrance. It was dark, the air cold with a stiff breeze that made the promise of early spring seem unlikely. It was reminiscent of a Black Friday sale, except you could feel pent-up anxiety from the crowd, which soon stretched around the corner and out of sight.
My daughter Alyson and I wanted, of all things, toilet paper and distilled water for a piece of medical equipment. Since we were there, we thought we’d pick up a few other items that might be helpful, too.
Social distancing was impossible. Waiting in a line was a no-no. But I seemed to have run out of options. Online sites were sold out. I’d been to several stores that now have empty shelves where really basic items ought to be.
I was cranky and cold.
The mass undulated toward the paper products aisle, where a kid who looked a little scared announced in a tremulous voice that no one could buy more than four packages of TP. The store hadn’t unpacked the boxes, which filled the aisle, and the fastest of the throng were tearing them open and grabbing.
The store staff didn’t differentiate between the 24-roll packs and the two- and four-roll packs, so some were leaving with 96 rolls, while others had eight. The vast majority didn’t get any.
I found a box of four-rolls off to a side and grabbed four packages, feeling victorious, then turned to find my cart was gone. Grrr. Aly, who sometimes acts as my conscience when I’m stressed and in my-family-first mode, peeled two packages from me and handed them to an elderly woman who had no way to jump into the fray.
I was OK with that. But it felt like we wasted precious minutes finding a cart while others scavenged all the good stuff. As we wandered the aisles looking for helpful items that were mostly gone, Aly pointed to a very elderly gentleman who sounded worried as he asked a clerk where he might find toilet paper.
Where, indeed?
I told Aly we needed the small stash I’d managed to get. She shook her head, clearly disappointed in me, and pointed again to the man, who was looking even frailer now that he’d failed in his pre-dawn quest to find tissue.
It’s truly shameful and embarrassing when you catch yourself being selfish or petty in front of a person you’ve tried to be a role model for her entire life. I tapped him on the shoulder and handed him half my remaining stash, four measly rolls. I tried not to resent the man whose cart had 96.
I’ve thought about this a lot in the last few days. We are all in crisis right now and people react differently when faced with a challenge. Some are getting in trouble for hoarding obscene amounts of necessities to make a quick, but vicious, profit. Some are gathering too many items because they want to protect their brood.
But there are also folks who are being the people I wish I’d shown my daughter in the early morning hours.
CNN just reported on an honor student named Jayde Powell who organized a group of people to be “Shopping Angels” for the sick and the elderly. She started with 20 members of her medical fraternity, who enlisted others to join. Canada has something similar. The BBC says they’re “Caremongers.”
There are landlords forgiving rent for a month when tenants struggle, stores setting up early shopping hours just for seniors who need to avoid crowds, neighbors keeping track of the vulnerable. Although school is out right now in Utah, school doors are open so needy kids can eat and get a little help with homework.
Reaching inside to find our better selves will make it easier to get through this pandemic. I’m glad I had someone who loved me enough to call me out.