By: Tommy Druen
Guest Columnist
Memories are funny things. We all have those early recollections that stick with us, but why do certain events remain while others fade? Some of my earliest memories, like my favorite toy or a painful injury, make sense. But others seem utterly random, such as the first time I ever went to Walmart.
Thanks to some online sleuthing, I discovered that the Walmart in my area opened in 1981, just days following my fourth birthday. Imagine the thrill of a four-year-old unexpectedly encountering multiple aisles of toys! Maybe that’s why it left such a strong impression on me, yet more likely it was the crowd.
This Walmart wasn’t just a local store—it served a region spanning seven or eight counties. And, in those days, big box stores were much smaller. So the place was always packed.
As a kid, I saw the crowd as part of Walmart’s charm. The place was always bustling, and you were bound to run into someone you knew. To a preschooler, Walmart was as exciting as the Las Vegas Strip! That’s why I couldn’t understand why my parents often preferred to shop elsewhere—whether it was a five-and-dime in the old part of town, a rural general store closer to our house, or, gasp, the local K-Mart, which seemed to be teetering on the brink of bankruptcy on its best of days.
My parents claimed they wanted to support smaller businesses. While true, I also suspected they just wanted to avoid the crowds. Now, having had two young children of my own, I realize they were probably trying to avoid the inevitable struggle of getting a four-year-old out of the store, which must be like dragging an alcoholic out of a bar!
These days, I avoid Walmart as much as possible too. Maybe it sounds curmudgeonly, but I don’t enjoy parking far away, trekking through a massive store, or maneuvering a shopping cart around people who clearly are seeing one for the first time. And, perhaps it’s my own ineptitude, but I’m no fan of the self-checkout lanes.
However, not long ago, I had to make the dreaded trip for something specific. As I stood in line—because, of course, the self-checkout lanes were backed up beyond reason—I witnessed something that lifted my spirits. It was the night before the first day of school, and the cashier was a rising high school senior. She proudly mentioned this to every customer and asked each one for advice on making the most of her final year.
The responses were varied and interesting, reflecting the ages of the people in front of me. An older man encouraged her to follow her passion, regardless if that included college. A college-age woman suggested she take the ACT more than once, “just to get the nerves out of the way.” Both solid pieces of advice.
When it was my turn, I told her not to put too much pressure on her senior year. Hollywood has romanticized it to the point that no one could ever live up to the expectations. In reality, it’s just another year of school.
My main advice, though, was to take pictures. Take pictures with your friends, with your teachers, even with people you barely know. It doesn’t matter. With a camera in every pocket, it’s easier than ever to document the year. After graduation, friends may scatter far and wide.
I’m fortunate to live in a time when I can stay in touch with old friends through texting and social media. And while some of my best high school memories, just like that first trip to Walmart, are permanently etched in my mind, I know I’ve forgotten many other good times that I wish I had captured in photos.
Ugo Betti, the Italian playwright, once said, “Memories are like stones, time and distance erode them like acid.”
Time and distance may indeed be the enemy, but we’re lucky to have the tools to fight back. I hope that young cashier takes my advice. And for once, I left Walmart in a positive mood—even if I did have to stand in line for ten minutes.
