A Smile Is A Stamp Of Friendship

They are here.

Somewhere.

They are tucked safely where I’ll be able to find them, but I can’t. They are a treasure for me: just seven stamps from Mexico glued onto a piece of cardboard. I wish I could find them. I thought about them this weekend, as I carefully clipped some stamps from a package for Share A Square that came from Japan. These will become treasures for me, too.

Just out of high school and full of enthusiasm, I worked at the Kroger Wyatt Grocery Store back in 1972 as a check-out clerk. I made $10 an hour (which was darned good pay), and I earned every penny of it.

Back in the old days, grocery items were not marked with bar codes, and there were no scanners. I had to punch in the numbers on the cash register for each item. My cash register was not sophisticated enough to calculate sales tax, so I had to figure it in my head (I do not have a head for numbers, so this was a chore for me). Not only that, but the register didn’t tell me the change to give to a customer when they handed me money. I had to determine that on my own.

Have you ever seen clerks these days try to figure out how to give change? It’s laughable. If the machine doesn’t tell them the amount, they struggle trying to count out the coins.

In those days long ago, the items were marked with stickers. Those could easily fall off (or be peeled off by unscrupulous customers who wanted to tell you the item was a lower price). The checkers had to know the price of almost everything in the store. We had to know the sales that were going on each week. We had to be able to recognize the vegetables, although we didn’t sell the exotic produce that you can find in grocery stores these days. Yessirree, I earned my paycheck.

When I finished ringing up the sales, I handed the customer their change along with their Top Value trading stamps. Do you remember trading stamps that you got at the grocery store? S & H Green Stamps were more popular, but we gave Top Value. You got those itty bitty stamps according to the amount of money you spent. You could paste them in a book and trade them in for “valuable merchandise” from a catalog. I remember saving for a tennis racket once. It was a piece of junk. I couldn’t ever hit the tennis ball with it. Of course, I could never hit a tennis ball anyway…

I had several customers who would stand in long lines just to have me check out their groceries. I remember one family in particular: a husband and wife, and three adorable little boys. As far as I could tell, they were migrant workers from Mexico. In those days, there was not a large population of Hispanic people in North Texas, so these folks were a rarity. Businesses did not cater to them. No hablo español. We couldn’t understand each others words at all.

The first time I saw them, they were standing tentatively near the registers. They looked totally lost to me, so I waved and smiled and motioned for them to come to me. They seemed very relieved as they walked up to my register and put their items on the counter.

The man pointed at the onions he was buying and said, “¿Cebollas?” I drawled, “Onions.” He repeated, in my Texas accent, “Onions.” And he got his wife and all three children to say, “Onions.” They all sounded like me! How sad is that? He pointed at the hamburger meat and said, “¿carne?” I said, “hamburger meat.” They all repeated after me.

We went through every item they bought, and I gave them an “English” lesson. When he paid for his purchase, carefully putting the bills on the counter, I counted out loud in English. He repeated every word I said. I gave him his change and his trading stamps. He looked very puzzled by the trading stamps, but he grinned from ear to ear and said, “Gracias. Gracias mucho.” I couldn’t believe that those little stamps made him so ecstatic.

That started a daily trend. The family came in every day to buy their food for that day, and they always waited for me to be free to check them out. Once, they waited thirty minutes while I was on supper break. They wouldn’t let anyone else check them out. Every time they came through the line, I gave them an English lesson. After about a week, the man could put the onions on the counter and pronounce, “That is onions.” I “oohed” and “aahed” over every success.

This family became the high point of my day, and I always looked forward to seeing them. My boss wasn’t delighted that I spent so much time on them, but he put up with me because I was so adorable back then. He wouldn’t put up with me now.

Several months passed. One day, they came in dressed in their Sunday best. They waited in my line for quite a long time, but when they got to the counter they didn’t have anything to purchase. Instead, they had gifts for me. They handed me a package of tinfoil that held a tortilla filled with meat. From his pocket, the man pulled out seven postage stamps from Mexico (used ones, of course). He handed these to me with a smile and said, “For you. We go now. Goodbye.”

I realized that the “goodbye” meant “forever”…so, I dashed around the corner and surprised them with hugs. I just stood there and teared up as I watched them walk out the door. I looked at the “treasures” they had given me. Awww! He gave me stamps…just like I always gave him.

Then, a horrible thought struck me:

I never saw my friends again, but I think about them from time to time. I hope that wherever they went they are doing well. Those little boys are grown men now. I hope that they don’t speak English with my terrible Texas accent, but I hope they learned to smile.

Smiles build bridges; they are a Universal Language. Y’all try one on today.

Other posts you might enjoy:

1. Losers Weepers
2. An Epilogue: Finders Weepers
3. Until Lincoln Turns Blue
4. Christmas Card Controversy

Tagged as: Memories, stamps, Storytelling