THE MARKET BASKET RECEIPT
“It’s likely from one of the last times she ever drove herself to the store.”
I found this receipt in the glove box of Mom’s car, a bright red Chevy Trax she bought when she was 83 and promptly named Blaze. After driving Blaze for a few years, she decided it made more sense for me to be her chauffeur. But when she was 88 she suddenly demanded the keys back. She wanted to be driving again. She had things to buy at Market Basket.
For those who don’t know, Market Basket is a Massachusetts institution, a beloved family-owned grocery chain famous for its low prices, congested parking lots and chaotic aisles packed with fanatically loyal customers. You enter with a heavy dose of patience and exit with more money in your wallet than if you’d shopped anywhere else.
It was the perfect store for Mom. As a child of the Depression, she lived to be frugal; as the middle of 13 siblings, she thrived in a crowd. She steered her cart through the aisles with the precision of a NASCAR driver, hoping to see one of her many friends who loved a Market Basket bargain too. She shopped as though she still lived in a super-sized family instead of alone in a one-bedroom apartment. If tuna was on sale for $1.25 a can, five went in the cart even though she already had 10 at home. Same for mac and cheese, crackers, butter—anything deemed too good a deal to leave behind. And this was before dementia took hold.
I think it was the beginnings of dementia that made her so adamant about driving again. I had Blaze at my house, and she threatened to call the dealership and have it towed to her. Several times, she threatened to have me arrested. And anytime I thought she was at last resigned to the fact that she wouldn’t be driving, she’d double down. Once, she decided she’d walk the quarter mile to a church event rather than wait for the planned ride. She made it about halfway before falling and breaking her neck in several places; the cuts to her forehead required 50 stitches. Still, she insisted she could drive. She was used to being in control.
As a child, I was rambunctious to the point of being out of control. One of my favorite tricks when I was very young was to wait until Mom was on the phone—corded, of course, since it was the ’60s—then climb our pantry shelves and throw down everything I could. Trying in vain to reach me, to stop me from wreaking havoc on all those groceries, Mom would stretch the phone cord to within an inch of its life, all the while keeping up her end of her conversation. Eventually there was a lock way up at the top of the pantry door.
I wonder if she ever thought of those days when she was shopping. I wonder if eventually those memories were likewise locked away. I’ll never know. On a warm and rainy fall afternoon in 2022, Mom transitioned from this world to the next. With the window open and a breeze blowing the sheer curtains, the Boston Symphony playing softly in the background, her granddaughter holding one hand and me holding the other, she took her last breath.
Close by, Blaze sat in the driveway with the Market Basket receipt in the glove box. It’s likely from one of the last times she ever drove herself to the store. Filling her cart with English muffins, Wheat Thins, ginger ale, tuna, Swiss cheese and half-and-half, she spent $70.23 that day, even though by then eating wasn’t as big a priority as taking naps, seeing her friends, going to the high-school musical her neighbor choreographed, cheering on her tennis hero Rafa Nadal and otherwise just having fun. I keep the receipt because, when I found it six or seven months after Mom died, it was the thing that finally released my tears.
—Cindy Stewart
Cindy Stewart earned an MFA in creative nonfiction from Bay Path University in 2023. She teaches creative writing to senior citizens, Montessori middle-school students and groups of women.
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So good. And I love Market Basket too!
I love this. And as a lifelong Mass resident I’m thrilled to see Market Basket in an essay!