EVERYONE HAS A SEARS STORY

by Mariane Holbrook 

If you ask a roomful of people what five things most influenced America in the early 1900s, one of the five things will be "Sears." 

Sears was the ultimate American success story. The whole phenomenon began in the late 1880s when a young man decided to market some inexpensive jewelry and watches. By 1895 his burgeoning company had become so popular that it issued a 532-page catalog which offered everything from fishing tackle to furniture, from bicycles to baby carriages, from cattle prods to corsets. It was a rip-roaring success. 

When the new Sears, Roebuck catalog arrived at our home, we kids fought over it, hid it from each other, used it as a stepping stool and sat on it to give extra height at the kitchen table. And at Christmas, we made endless lists of things we desperately wanted from its colorful pages but knew we'd never get. 

Any institution with roots that deeply entrenched in the soil of Americana naturally becomes fodder for humor. Hey, it's the American way. 

As a newlywed many years ago, my first experience with Sears occurred when I tried to make a monthly payment at their credit window. I gave a newly hired clerk my billing statement and forked over twenty dollars. She looked at me suspiciously and declared, "I need some identification." I'm me, I huffed. "I still need some identification," she repeated. For some reason this stuck me as funny so I confessed. "Okay," I said. "I admit it. I'm not the person whose name is printed on that billing statement. I'm just going around paying $20 on the accounts of people I don't even know just to be nice. You caught me." She wasn't amused. Only the intervention of her supervisor brought this ridiculous confrontation to an end. 

Years later, we moved to another town and received a welcome note from Sears, inviting us to apply for a credit card. We completed the application and returned it. Several weeks later, we received a rejection notice from Sears saying they couldn't issue a credit card to us because we hadn't lived in the area long enough. Go figure. 

As with every major retailer back then, Sears had a well-deserved reputation for late deliveries. I counted on that when I decided one day to buy a new refrigerator. The one we were using was satisfactory but I desperately wanted an ice-maker. My plan was to immediately purchase a new one and schedule delivery for two days later when John would be out of town. 

I hurried to Sears that morning, selected a state-of-the-art, side-by-side refrigerator/ freezer, paid cash for it and asked that delivery instructions be hand-printed in bright red to avoid any confusion. It absolutely must not be delivered until two days hence, when John would be gone. That give me time to invent a reason why I'd bought a major appliance in his absence and without his approval. 

I spent the rest of the day shopping at the mall, having lunch with a friend, picking up some books at the library and finally shopping for groceries. It was late afternoon when I returned home. 

Walking into the kitchen, I dropped my bag of groceries with a thud. There standing proudly against the wall was my gleaming new refrigerator and leaning against it with his arms crossed, stood my husband. He was not smiling. 

Just take me out and shoot me now. I stared at the refrigerator and willed it to disappear in thin air. Poof. Then I prayed for a near-death experience which was a serious possibility given the stern look on John's face. 

After an eternity, I squeaked, "Happy Birthday, honey," hoping to break through his concrete facade with a feeble attempt at humor. 

"My birthday was in March. This is June," he replied in a monotone. 

It was time to tell the truth. To 'fess up. To face the music. To take my lumps. 

So I told John I won the refrigerator in a national sweepstakes. Hey! I was too young to die.