We Hollister long-timers occasionally mourn the loss of our
little town’s innocence: The challenge of figuring out which car
should go next when Nash and San Benito was still a four-way stop;
giving out just the last four digits when someone asked you for
your phone number; never having to debate which movie to see
because there was only one showing.
We Hollister long-timers occasionally mourn the loss of our little town’s innocence: The challenge of figuring out which car should go next when Nash and San Benito was still a four-way stop; giving out just the last four digits when someone asked you for your phone number; never having to debate which movie to see because there was only one showing.
But one local joy that remains for me is the inevitable run-ins with people I know at the grocery store. It’s a simple pleasure when I’m in the right mood and it forces me to slow down when I’m trying to get somewhere too fast.
The store is like a big social club. People are always rolling along, debating, comparing, checking out what other people are buying or wearing.
Where my wife and I shop, if we haven’t spotted someone we know in the first five minutes, something feels wrong. It can be first thing in the morning or right before closing, but I’ll run into someone I know somewhere between the milk case and the checkout counter.
Occasionally I’ve had to wait as long as the walk back to my car after paying for the food, but there will always be someone I know to say hello to. Just yesterday, I ran into a former high-ranking county official who shared my concern from last week about finding a hat to fit an oversized head. You gotta love Hollister.
People who move here from San Jose or elsewhere marvel at this phenomenon.
“You can’t go anywhere without seeing somebody you know,” they marvel. “In San Jose, I was anonymous.” Ah, but not in Hollister. You had better be comfortable with the way you look, because somebody is going to see you in those rollers or those torn sweats or with that bed-head. You also better watch what you’re talking about, because somebody is going to hear part of the gossip that you thought was safe to share in the canned goods aisle.
There is something to be said for anonymity, particularly at the grocery store. Who knows what the people we run into are thinking?
“Hmm, I wonder what he needs that ointment for.”
“Wow, I hope she doesn’t plan to eat all of that ice cream herself.”
“Great, he’s buying a gallon of tequila. So much for a quiet night on our street.”
We all take a peek into the carts of people we run into – as much as we might deny it. It’s not so much that we’re trying to be judgmental … we’re just curious.
Our carts are a window into our world. We are what we eat, the saying goes, so checking out what someone is buying is like peering into their soul.
If that’s true, my soul contains a lot of cereal. Maybe too much cereal. And it’s got Fudgsicles; cool, yummy Fudgsicles. And Calistoga water. And bananas. And Aunt Jemima syrup for the 40-count box of waffles that is always in my freezer.
Upon reflection, my soul is an all-day breakfast buffet, with a nice dessert-on-a-stick capper. I don’t care who knows!
Next time you see my rolling down Aisle 4 at Nob Hill, say hello. I’ll promise not to judge you for buying Twinkies if you keep it quiet that I like peanut butter on my waffles.
Adam Breen teaches journalism and yearbook at San Benito High School. He is former editor of The Free Lance.
