A Ramble with Hal

Feel-good shopping—online or otherwise.

Living in the boondocks, it’s hard not to panic when you’re down to the last scoops of a hard-to-find coffee blend: organic, decaf, water-processed. In fact, if one were to walk into that starry-eyed coffee chain, you couldn’t order this specialty for your vanilla-carmel soy macchiato latte. It’s that difficult to find—especially here in no-frills North State. Fortunately, this particular blend is available from my favorite online retailer. As a standby to carry me through if I run out, I have on the shelf an organic, carbon-dioxide processed decaf instant coffee—but it’s not the same experience. And isn’t that what it’s all about in these socially-conscious and connected Twenties— what it feels like?

As I’ve been busy shopping lately, I found myself reflecting on the places that take my money—and the experiences they offer in return—tactile, virtual or otherwise. Are they warm and fuzzy?

Obviously, shopping online is not the sensually-stimulating experience of that mid-century marvel—the shopping mall. Where I grew up in the Bay Area, the Hillsdale Mall had a farmer’s market buffet-style cafeteria. What you could scoop onto your plate was an almost endless selection. For a kid, this meant the freedom to eat anything you wanted—no parental approval required. The mall also sported Benny Bufano animal sculptures that kids could actually crawl on.

Down the El Camino Real at the Mayfield Mall, store-after- store offered a razzle-dazzle retail display that you could touch and smell before buying—much glitzier than store displays at Monkey Wards or Ben Franklin. The cracker-andcheese shops handed out free samples. Try getting that online.

With the pandemic and consumers’ switch to e-commerce, shopping malls that survive are reinventing themselves. New experiences await—including living right on the property itself as mall space gets partially repurposed for housing. For the consummate consumer, walking just a few steps to shop promises a new-found thrill—and maybe even possible that online experience—browsing in the bathrobe.

Moving out of the city and into California’s Outback, my shopping selections diminished geometrically and geographically— but I soldiered on at local marts with their limited choices.

The pandemic, though, finally forced me to buy online for kitchen staples. When I went to choose a one-stop, go-to marketplace, I found two massive retailers as likely options. One was what all the acquaintances I knew were using. Let’s call it richbaldguy.com and the second was a big box store I usually resist entering. Let's call it thatverylargeextendedsouthernfamilymart.com.

After I tried out their websites, my final selection ended up based not upon the best deals, but on morality. As I come from a far-flung tribe myself, I reasoned that sending money to an outfit with lots and lots of cousins and shirt-tail relatives is more socially responsible than to one run by a “bezillionaire” who wants to escape the very planet that makes him so rich. That doesn't feel warm and fuzzy—my money being burned for rocket fuel.

BTW, having just one place to shop for food staples online is not limiting. Just the opposite, it's freeing. That's one less credit card on the internet. One less username and password to memorize and be hacked. One less website to navigate. Naturally, it’s not the same experience as Saturdays at the mall, where you often bump into neighbors and friends—old home week away from home—and enjoy good conversation while munching a Cinnabon. Or—a favorite memory from long ago—meeting up with Dad in the mall courtyard to rest on a bench while the women-folk continued shopping.

Of course, when I get tired browsing online, I don’t have to drive home. I’m already there. I just close the laptop and close my eyes. That's a wonderful feeling too.

A native Californian, H.A. Silliman grew up in the Gold County and currently lives in the northern outback. He is author of Where Two Rivers Meet anthology, which also appears in this newspaper. © 2023 H.A. Silliman.