MEMORIES OF GOLDEN HARVEST

by Old Grumpy [Our Curmudgeon-at-Large]

Who would believe that you would look back with fondness on a place which took so much of your money and usually caused you to groan when you realised you had to go there on a Friday evening? This ambivalence became apparent to so many people on Abaco when Golden Harvest Supermarket burned down on 17th June. We had shopped our last in Abaco's largest food emporium and suddenly we missed it.

Golden Harvest was a social place in many ways. You got to know more about acquaintances while shopping then at church. One peek into their shopping cart and the yogurt, fruits, vegetables and whole meal bread there confirmed the reason why they looked slimmer recently. Or that dozen packets of T-bone steaks, indicating a celebration. Or the chips and juices indicating a pre-school grandchild. You learned which men were secure enough in their masculinity to shop for their wives on occasion. You learned which couples shopped together.

You got used to the times when certain people shopped. You noticed those who would fill their cart with a week's supply of provisions and those who would pop in and out every day for a few items. Thursday and Friday were Treasure Cay days when you would meet the same TC residents in the post office, then Solomons, then Golden Harvest. "Are you following me or am I following you?" was the usual jest.

I learned never to say goodbye in a supermarket. After a sincere farewell to someone you would pass them again in the next aisle, and the next one, and the next one. Then queue up behind them at the cash register.

Golden Harvest had its own foibles. After looking for bottled marshmallow for nearly half an hour once, I relented and asked floor manager Raymond Sands where I might find it. "By the pasta sauces, of course," he told me. Of course! I should have figured that out.

I will always associate Golden Harvest with the late Oswald Roberts, the first manager of the store. I remember, many years ago, finding Oswald and a crew of shelf-stackers taking the refrigeration doors off the displays and checking for a dead rat. The smell was horrible and Oswald wanted it out of the way fast. I recognised the smell immediately. I had once spent a summer in Maastricht, Holland, which is home to the infamous Limburger cheese. That smell was not dead rat, it was ripe Limburger cheese. I located a bottle of Limburger that someone had opened and left the lid off. Within minutes the store was smelling sweet again.

If what you bought at Golden Harvest proved to be damaged in some way, there was never any hassle in bringing it back and getting a refund. The management always seemed to appreciate you bringing to their attention the fact that, say, a can of beans was priced at three times what it should have been. Somehow when five pound boxes of giant shrimp were priced at $12 you were more reluctant to point out the pricing error.

Management was always helpful. If wanted a goose for Christmas instead of turkey, they would order it specially for you. They even hunted me down some lamb kidneys on one occasion. I will always remember the friendly helpfulness of Bethsheba at the meat counter and Gordon Dean overseeing the fresh produce.

Shopping at Golden Harvest helped turn me from being an old-fashioned gentleman into the curmudgeon I am today. Back in my sweet-tempered days I stood in line with a full cart of food waiting to be checked out. A little Haitian lady with one package eased in front of me and said, "Daddy, I only got one." Figuring she would be quickly dealt with, I acquiesced to her jumping queue. Her item was checked out and then she remembered something else she had to get. At the other end of the store. Amazingly, with no show of embarrassment, the woman (notice she's a woman now, not a lady) repeated the manoeuvre half a dozen times. In the end she was satisfied with her purchases. Horror of horrors, she then produced a brown paper bag full of pennies with the occasional nickel. The check out girl painstakingly counted out the required sum and there was a pile of pennies left over. Off the woman went again to make another purchase. Now she was ten cents short and the check out girl told her to pay the full price or put the item back. She turned sad eyes on me and I groaned and pulled out a dime for her.

It took me more than half an hour to get served. I imagine those who had checked out ahead of me had cooked the food they had bought and were eating it by now. I learned my lesson. Whenever a Haitian woman approaches me and says, "Daddy, I only got one" I growl and in simple Saxon English tell her get to the end of the line. Nearby tourists observe my rudeness and no doubt think I am something of a cad to deny this poor woman with one item a quick exit. "Try that line," I say, pushing her towards the tourists. Wicked intentions are rarely laudable but they're often fun.

Golden Harvest was where you met people you hadn't seen in ages and caught upon upon where they had been and what they had been doing. You learned more about people's health in Golden Harvest than at the doctor's office. You commiserated with them about their problems with unruly teenage children, how hard it was to make ends meet, the current political situation, the latest local tragedy. News was passed on, opinions voiced. The rich mixed with the poor and paid the same prices.

Golden Harvest was much more than just a food store. It had an ambience that the old Abaco Market never had, that the Mini Mart and Sawyer's Market do not have. It will take a while before its replacement becomes the same sort of social phenomenon. Everything I know about some people I learned at Golden Harvest...