Mighty Weggers

—Nearly 55 years ago Yr Fthfl Srvnt received his BA, then returned home to the same sorry litany of angry put-downs and sanctimonious badmouthing he left behind for college.
Despite being a misfit, an agnostic among zealots, my college, Houghton (“HO-tin;” as in “hoe,” not “how” or “who”), in Western NY, was the first hyper-religious institution to not automatically adjudge me rebellious and Of-the-Devil.
It was my professors, adult authority-figures who wanted me in their classes.
“That Hughes kid can think. He might say something that makes me think.”
My bereavement-counselor tells me Houghton was my first step away from my horrible childhood.
After college returning home was extremely depressing.
College had been fun. My father was angry as Hell, because Houghton hadn’t “straightened me out.”
After a month I wanted out.
My mother was distraught. It was the equivalent of running away.
My father cosigned to buy me a car: $600 for a used ’61 Corvair Monza coupe with PowerGlide.
I loaded my meager belongings in it and headed north.
I never could pay the $600, which my father complained about until he died. Despite my giving thousands to my younger siblings to help them with college expenses.
North to Rochester to hook up with my wife-to-be.
She began Library-Science at Geneseo State College. She’d been in my class at Houghton.
The first night I had to sleep in my Corvair — impossible!
The next day we motored up to Rochester to get myself living-quarters, a $10-a-week sleeping room. (That may have been $10-a-month.)
I would eat in restaurants until my money gave out.
My sleeping room was at 136 Chili Avenue, just west of where Rochester’s W. Main St. ends.
I had kitchen privileges, but rarely used ‘em. It was too much trouble.
West Main ends just west of Bull’s-Head, splitting into Chili and West Avenues.
On West Avenue were two side-by-side supermarkets, a Weggers and a Star Market.
Weggers was more amenable. I went there to buy Campbell’s canned beef soup and rolled chocolate cake.
I’d take both to my sleeping room, and heat the soup in a small pitcher with a coffee-coil.
That was supper when I didn’t eat out.
It was a meager start for leaving madness behind.
No way was I going home. Have my father celebrate return of his Prodigal-Son? The fact I failed?
No way José!
It’s been Weggers ever since.
For a long time it was East Ave. Wegmans. That was when we lived in our tiny house on Winton Road in Rochester.
We could walk to it.
After we moved out to West Bloomfield, I used the Pittsford-Plaza Wegmans coming home from work.
That store has since been rebuilt into what I call “the-jewel-the-crown.”
Some of it has two stories, and ya need a powered cart to shop it. Its parking lot is so big they need a valet service.
I haven’t been in a Weggers yet that didn’t have a G-gauge model train running over the cheese-bar.
“BAMP-BAMP-BA-BAMP!” (The grade-crossing horn signal.)
East Ave. Wegmans has also been rebuilt — a gigantic superstore I’ve never been to.
The Henrietta Wegmans was also rebuilt into what I call “the Palace.” Clocktower, parapets, glitz everywhere. All it needs is a moat, and perhaps a carousel.
“What if all I need is bread?”
Wegmans expanded all over the northeast, complements of Danny Wegman, Ferrari-driving son of Robert Wegman.
(I met Danny once.)
Robert used to be incensed Danny wanted to put in “Market Cafés” (eating parlors).
“We’re a grocery, Danny!”
Nevertheless, “good call Danny!”
Perhaps another Weggers paradigm is “just spend the money. It comes back in buckets.”
“There goes another Weggers truck!”
My first stop driving back from chasing trains in Altoona is the Williamsport Weggers. It’s always packed with thunder-thighed Harley-mamas in short-shorts.
A couple years ago I returned to my south-Jersey roots. There in the vast abandoned parking-lot of the defunct Garden State Park horse-racing track was the Cherry Hill Wegmans.
Wegmans goes after suburban markets, or the rich wannabees.
I tell a girl with whom I graduated high school (1962) to try the new Weggers not far from her home in southeastern PA.
I keep telling my brother in northern DE that Weggers is coming.
So Sunday-Sunday-Sunday! Off to the Canandaigua Weggers to buy groceries for the coming week.
Mainly bananas. Weggers are pretty good. They’re not used as baseball bats.
“Yo Matt; lob me that there peach so I can bat it outta the store with this here banana!”
And maybe I’ll meet *******, a pretty lady-friend who stocks produce at that supermarket.
Plus ******, another lady friend who often works self check-out.
Danny deserves that Ferrari.

• “Chy-lye;” all “eye.”
• “Parable of the Prodigal Son:” Luke 15:11–32 King James Version. (My father was a Bible-beater.)
• No lady friends at Weggers yesterday.