As I work outside behind the FrontierMart chipping ice from around the dumpster, I think about the Christmas just past and realize that if my family had had its way, Santa would have brought me a new jacket.  I told them a new jacket is totally unnecessary because I intend to hold onto the old black one I’m wearing.  It keeps me warm out here on the north side of the building as I restock our supply of firewood.

Certain family members are fond of calling this my “ratty old jacket.”  I’ll admit it has a couple of burn holes on one sleeve.  The cuffs and collar are frayed, a button is missing, and the pink lining is so faded that it’s only a memory of pink.  But there’s more to this jacket than meets the eye.

For starters it’s the warmest, coziest jacket I’ve ever owned.  And it’s so roomy that I can wear it over my bulkiest sweater.  It originally belonged to my best friend, Susan, and knowing Susan, it was the very best, most stylish ski jacket money could buy.  But that was a long time ago.  I have a photo of Susan wearing it, standing with her husband at the foot of a Taos ski slope in 1987.

This ratty old jacket brings me comfort.  I acquired it almost nine years ago in the winter of 2003.  You could say I inherited it from Susan, but that’s not exactly right.  It was February and I was at a low point in my life.  I found myself in Susan’s adobe home helping to dispose of her worldly belongings.  Since no one was living there, the heat was off and the house was cold.  I pulled the jacket from a garbage bag of clothing that was being donated to the Salvation Army.  When I put it on, it felt like a warm hug from an old friend, and it still does.

Susan died in that house at the hand of her husband, Peter, who then took his own life.  It happened during the holidays, and one of the few things I remember is that when we got the news, our Christmas decorations were only half finished.  They stayed that way until we finally took them down some months later.

Susan and Peter were found dead on December 16, 2002, so I always think of them at this time of year.  Peter was a prominent surgeon, dark, brilliant, and deeply troubled.

Susan was a ray of sunshine.  She and I shared something bigger than ourselves.  We met at a writer’s meeting a Barbara Furr’s house, and we continued our friendship at the FrontierMart.  We were an unlikely pair who taught each other to write.

If Susan was East, I was West.  She was Boston and I was Las Cruces.  She was a jet setter, and I owned a grocery store.  She could write thousands of words in record time; I agonized over every word.  She studied journalism; I studied English.  She wrote novels; I wrote short stories.  She was right-brained and I was left.  You get the picture.  Somehow it worked perfectly that we learned each other’s way of thinking.

In our approach to life and writing, we were so at odds that in writer’s circles we were known as Siskel and Ebert, day and night, long and short.  Sometimes we were invited to appear together to read and discuss our work.  We didn’t agree on much of anything.

At the invitation of a local bookstore owner, we started teaching writing classes.  We also taught at Norman Zollinger’s Taos School of Writing and UNM’s Honors Seminar.   We founded our own Focus on Fiction workshops which we taught for 12 years.

We gave each other confidence.  If I didn’t have an answer, Susan did, and vice versa.  We took vacations together and spent them reading manuscripts and how-to-write books.

After Susan died, I didn’t write for more than a year, and I’ve taught very few classes since then.  I think of it as moving into a new chapter, or maybe a new book.  I’m not as anxious to publish as I once was.  Susan always said that for her, writing was more about process and less about publication.  She said it’s about the living, the learning, and the revelation.  If you love the writing and do it enough, maybe publication will follow.  If it doesn’t, it’s still a great ride.  That’s one thing we agreed upon.

I find it surprising that now we’ve lived nine years without Susan.  Many of you knew her and miss her as I do.  I’m thankful to still be here, to hold her in my heart, and to have serendipitously acquired her jacket which I pull closer around me.

As I lie in bed suffering from a nasty upper respiratory bug, I have plenty of time to think about germs.  I’ve come to realize that people fall into two categories: Type A Germ Avoiders and Type B Germ Avoiders.  I am a type B and I believe that:

1.  Germs are everywhere and I probably can’t avoid them.

2.  I must wash my hands and take other reasonable precautions.

3.  My best defense is to stay strong and healthy to resist germs.

My husband, John, tends toward Type A.  He believes that:

1.  Germs are ugly, evil creatures who would love to make him sick.

2.  Sick people are crawling with ugly, evil creatures.

3.  He must avoid sick people at all costs.

“A sneeze travels 60 miles per hour,” John will tell you.  And so when I sneeze, he bolts out the door at 70 mph.

This respiratory bug of mine has added a new dimension that we’ve never faced before.  It seems I have laryngitis, and I can’t speak above a whisper.  And since Juhn suffers hearing loss, communication between us has become non-verbal.  This morning we had this exchange:

Me (whispering at the top of my lungs):  “I need a new box of Kleenex.”

John “What did you say?”

Me (stepping closer with the intention of whispering into his good ear)

John (stepping back, looking fearful, as if I am an executioner flu bug)

Me (grabbing a paper and pencil and writing “Kleenex.”

John (spraying Lysol) “Okay, I’ll go buy some.”

And off he went to the store.  When he returns I expect he’ll have bought all manner of Kleenex, Puffs, orange juice, Gatorade, chicken soup, hand sanitizer and disinfectant.  I won’t be surprised to see him open the door, and, holding his breath, stack the supplies just inside.  Then he might back quietly away (so as not to alert any germs) and avoid me for the rest of the day.

On a less personal note, I’d like to list a few observations about types A and B based on people who have worked and shopped at the FrontierMart.  If there is a used tissue on the floor, Type Bs will pick it up and throw it away.  Type As will carry the waste basket to the tissue and sweep it in with a broom.

Type Bs will buy a can of soda and drink it.  Type As will want to wash the can with antibacterial soap before drinking the soda.

Type Bs will lick their thumbs while counting money.  Type As won’t accept money that has been touched by a licked thumb.

When paying for merchandise, Type Bs will put their money into your hand.  Type As will drop their money on the counter to avoid touching your hand.

Type Bs will take a newspaper from the top of the stack.  Type As will pull their newspaper from the middle of the stack.

Type Bs will accept whatever change you give them.  Type As will want you to look through all the bills and give them the crispest, cleanest ones.

Type Bs will reach out and push the door open to exit the store.  Type As will turn around backwards and lean on the door to exit the store.

Type B men shake hands.  Type A men do knuckle bumps.

As I lie here getting sicker by the minute, exhausted from coughing, with the end of my nose glowing red, it occurs to me that Bs can turn into As if they get sick enough.  In fact I’m leaning toward becoming an A myself.  The more I think about it, the more I sense that germy, ugly creatures are gathering around me.  As soon as I feel up to it, I’m going to get the can of Lysol and spray after every sneeze.  I’ll have to be quick because I’ve heard that a sneeze can travel 60 miles per hour.

Last Summer marked the thirty-fifth anniversary of the Frontier Mart.  It was launched in 1976 by three people who dreamed of owning a little grocery store, and a fourth person who hated the idea.  I was the fourth.  My partners included my then-husband, Bob, and another married couple, Jim and Sharyl.

We took over the old Corrales Market in the building that is now known as the Bunkhouse, and we hauled off fifteen truck loads of warped signs, damaged merchandise and saggy cardboard displays.

Coca Cola Bottling Company sent a sign painter who climbed on the roof and wrote “Corrales Frontier Mart” between Coke logos.  Another soft drink company sent a man to paint signs on our front canopy.  All morning he worked while my partners and I rolled paint on the inside walls.  When we broke for lunch and went out to inspect the new signs, they read: “Milk, Ice, Picnick Suplies, Bread, Snaks, Soda Pop, Sundryies.”

Bob, Jim and Sharyl had grocery experience.  Bob and Jim were Circle K division managers.  Sharyl had managed one of the busiest Circle K’s in Albuquerque.  I had a degree in English.

While they talked profit margins, I tried to master the cash register.  I stood before a blur of impatient customers and aimed my nervous fingers at the keys.  Accuracy was more than I could hope for.  I just wanted to hit some sequence of keys that would open the cash drawer.

My partners discussed product mix while I tried to wedge milk, bread and eggs into a size 12 bag, only to find I needed a size 16 or maybe a 25.  Amid a sea of dropped coins and crumpled bags, I labored.  My partners shook their heads.  It was plain I couldn’t handle the job.  I only wanted to go home and see what I hadn’t seen for
days – my three-year-old when he was awake.  But women’s liberation was on
the rise, and running a cash register was considered a higher calling.

One day as I minded the store alone, the electricity flickered and died.  The outage lasted almost six hours.  I inserted a handle in the the side of our old cash register, punched prices into the keyboard, and cranked in each item.  A second turn of the handle brought up a sub-total to which I added tax from a chart.  One more turn and I had a total.  Customers smiled at the old machine.  Cranking gave me time to
think, and for the first time ever, my cash drawer balanced.

And not a moment too soon.  I had lots to learn because my teachers would be leaving.  Within six months, Jim and Sharyl sold out to Bob and me and moved to Phoenix.  A year later, Bob took a job in El Paso.  Soon after, we divorced.  By 1978 I was the sole
proprietor of a business I never wanted, a job I took to please my spouse and save a dying marriage.  It didn’t work.

Since no one offered me a better job, I kept the store.  It had advantages.  If times got tough, I could eat the merchandise.

I took my son to work with me, set him on a milk crate and watched him eat Wheaties before I sent him off to daycare.

Customers became my friends.  Without knowing it, I was falling into a new and challenging relationship with the people of Corrales.  In the beginning, I didn’t care one iota for the grocery business.  Then slowly and without my consent, running the little store started to feel significant.  Thanks to the Frontier Mart, I’m hooked on
Corrales like my Aunt Minnie is hooked on the soaps.  But my addiction is
more compelling because I’m a character in this unending story.  “To be
continued. . .” flashes forever in my mind’s eye.

For 35 years I’ve watched villagers buy toothpaste before breakfast and ice cream after the ten o’clock news.  I’ve seen them break diets, sneak cigarettes, shoplift, and meet secret lovers over coffee.  I’ve sold them diapers for their newborns, batteries for their
flashlights, bait for their fishhooks, traps for their mice and candles for their funerals.  The Frontier Mart has shown me life at its worst and life at its best.  Where else could I find such a diversity of people going about the business of living?

So to mark 35 years of selling items that seem trivial until we are caught without them, and to honor the people who have bought these items, I’m writing this series of essays from a storekeeper’s point of view.