From the Corner of Remembrance Lane and Keeping Busy Street

From where I sit at my computer I can see the plastered doorway to the laundry room and on one of the four corners was damage that was caused by my husband's wheelchair. Note the past tense used in that sentence. As of today, I finally fixed the plaster and repainted the damage area. It wasn’t the only damage his chair did to doors and doorways in the house---it was an on-going issue---but I fixed all the others fairly early into my widowhood. Why did I let this one go so long is anyone’s guess but I’m thinking a shrink would say that I didn’t want to let go of the past. Don would have told me that if you walk by something that is broken for more than two weeks it no longer registers in your mind. I’m going to split the difference and say the reason the damage didn’t get fixed is a combination of both. But here's how it came about: All the other damage was on wood and required a little sanding and stain and by the time I got them all fixed I was crying and bemoaning the fact that it was the last time I’d have to fix them. Then when I tried to tackle the plaster doorway, I discovered my spackling had dried up and it took me this long to buy another can.

I’ve been on a mission to fix all the broken things that have accumulated in the house. One of those projects involved the little green trunk pictured above. I’ve had it since before I started kindergarten. My mom bought it at the Salvation Army store and I kept doll clothes in it until my teen years when my dad made legs for it so I could use the trunk as chair-side table. Now it holds my oldest sentimental objects. Things like the straight-edge razor my dad’s dad brought over from Italy, brass bookends that my dad made, my childhood Disney characters cup, a pair of shell-pink silk panties with tiny buttons up the side that my mom saved in her cedar chest (I’m guessing from her honeymoon), the U.S. Nationalization & Citizenship paper that my grandfather always carried in his wallet and other treasures of no value unless you know the stories behind them and you share my gene pool. I wanted them all in one place so I could tell some hunky fireman, “Save that green trunk!” should the house ever catch on fire or it's handy to grab should I want to run away from home. Whichever comes first.

I always thought my dad could do anything. His formal education ended very early in his life but he was the wisest and most compassionate person I’ve ever known. He was good with his hands and he and my mom didn’t use gender as a guide when it came to teaching or encouraging my brother and me. My brother, for example, took an interest in cooking. To this day, I never did. Before I entered my teens Dad taught me how to draw blueprints and schematics and my mom bullied the high school principle into letting me be the first ever girl in the school to take mechanical drawing. And I was good at it, thanks to Dad. But when I repaired the legs on my little green trunk I realized that they wouldn’t have come apart if Dad had used longer screws. Don’t you hate it when the people you’ve put up on pedestals are rendered imperfect and human like the rest of us? After someone we deeply loved dies we tend to gloss over their flaws and foibles while we mourn. Then we go through a period where we remember them again and somehow even those flaws and foibles then become part of our warm, fuzzy memories. I still can't believe the length of those screws Dad used but on the other hand, they did the job for fifty-five years.

I need to get off Remembrance Lane and turn onto Keeping Busy Street. In the pursuit of keeping busy, recently I went to a Life Learning Lecture at the senior hall. The lecturer---Bruce Allen Kopyter---is an architect by trade with a passion for researching and writing books about the history of department stores. His first book was about Crowley’s in Detroit, his second one is about the Jacobson’s chain that had stores from mid-Michigan to Florida and he's currently working on a book about Macy’s. We had a Jacobson’s in town until the ‘80s but my family wasn’t wealthy enough to shop there. The lecture, however, was billed as a “fascinating history of the business climate in Michigan” so I thought what the heck, it's an afternoon out of the house. He told a lot of stories about the kind of service the old-time department stores gave. Sales clerks who would run their hands inside of silk stockings to show off their color. What woman my age doesn’t remember those days?  

After the lecture I took myself out to for lunch to a breakfast-all-day-long place. I don’t fry bacon---it scares me---so that’s something I often order when I go out. I have blood work coming up soon for my bi-annual appointment so I decided against bacon and eggs this time, opting instead for waffles. Then an evil waitress asked, “Would you like bacon with that?” God, I’m so darn weak! “I shouldn’t," I replied, “but I will.” If she hadn't asked, I would have gotten that gold star for a good decision. I'm dreading that appointment. I don’t have a prayer of losing the weight I gained since I saw my internist last fall and he’s going to give me the Bad-Girl Lecture! I’ve heard it before. About every other appointment. If nothing else, at least I’m predictable. ©