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Relatives, Bargains, and Other Things That Don’t Exist Anymore
You needed anything? A relative would tell you where to get it, whether you asked or not.
There was a time when, if you needed anything: a doctor, a dentist, a mattress, a wedding ring, a house, your go‑to source was one word: RELATIVES. Not Yelp. Not Google. Not “the guy my neighbor swears by.” Relatives. The original Internet, except with more yelling.
Take my father’s cousin “Doc,” my mother’s obstetrician. According to family lore, he spent three days trying to yank me out of her. I can only imagine their next dinner party:
Cousin Doc: “So, Frieda, I really got to know you during those three days. Never figured you had such an intense vocabulary.”
My mother: “You’re an incompetent, slow son‑of‑a‑bitch, but thank you for not charging your usual fee.”
Then there was Cousin Dick the Dentist. Today’s pediatric dentists have ceiling TVs, headphones, cartoons, and a general desire not to traumatize children. My cousin had none of that. He had a horse‑shaped face and a drill.
“Buck up, girl, you’re almost a woman,” he told me. I was seven.
“He hurts me, he’s mean, and his face looks like Mr. Ed’s,” I told my mother.
“Offer him a carrot,” she said, not looking up. After a moment, she added, “He gives me a discount. Deal with the pain.”
Years later, when I acquired my first husband, I also acquired a whole new set of “will‑do‑or‑get‑things‑for‑you‑at‑cost‑or‑for‑free” relatives. Our wedding rings came from Uncle Abe, Abe the Thief, as he was called behind his back and occasionally to his face. As soon as we said our vows, our ring fingers developed greenish hues. Nothing says “eternal love” like jewelry that oxidizes.
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With our wedding money, we decided to get furniture for our tiny apartment. My mother‑in‑law insisted, “You have to go to Cousin Mort at The Cheap Sleep Store for your bedroom set.”
“What if I don’t like any of them?” I asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Mort is the best in the business, plus he donated blood and saved Cousin Larry.” I’d heard Cousin Larry might not have been worth saving, but a relative is a relative, so off we went.
Best‑in‑the‑business Mort sold us a bedroom suite he assured us was “a special deal, usually available only to the sales force.” The set fell apart long before our marriage did.
In the 60s, when Husband One and I were still sort of happily married, we went house hunting. A collection of aunts and uncles mandated we work with Cousin‑Rhoda‑the‑Realtor, who was in the midst of changing her name to Passion Flower. We were skeptical.
“I have a charming house a bit out in the country,” our purple‑haired cousin/agent explained. “It only needs a little TLC. Take a ride over and look at it.”
As we approached the house, we encountered a ragged bunch of bead‑wearing, dashiki‑clad hippies on the front stoop.
“Hey, man,” one said. “We’re hangin’ here ’cause it’s empty. I mean, if you buy it, we could stay with you and raise chickens and grow weed in the yard.”
“Peace and love,” my then‑husband said, as we sprinted back to the car.
Now all those relatives have gone to that huge clearance center in the sky, and I do miss them, even if their services and our purchases were not always great bargains. My relatives today are younger and not into this “do‑for‑family‑at‑a‑discount” thing.
In place of those ever‑micro‑managing relatives, we have apps. I can stand in a store or at home, grab my phone, and compare prices on a possible purchase or service. I can even read reviews.
Of course, it’s not as personal as an uncle bragging, “I know a guy,” or “I know a place,” even when the results were less than stellar. On the other hand, I’ll probably never end up with a horse‑faced dentist, a mediocre mattress, or a green finger.
