Have you ever given much thought to why you do things a certain way? This story explores how I developed some patterns and behaviors in my life. We all have them and are hard pressed to change them. Sometimes understanding how they came about can be very freeing. Childhood seems to be the time that some of these subtle patterns are formed.
In this story you learn a little more about my mother and father. I also introduce you to a bit of my Aunt Syl. She was one of my very favorite persons in my life and I learned so much from her quiet ways. She will appear in detail in future stories.
WANDERING
I sat at gate B7 of the busy airport waiting for my oldest son's plane to arrive having timed my departure from home to be very close to the time he would be walking off the plane only to find that the arrival of his flight had been delayed an hour.
I found a quiet spot, one that would not tempt my to watch the passing crowds. Sometimes I enjoyed watching people pass by and tried to interpret the different looks on their faces into stories. I observed people waiting, some patient, some oblivious of their surroundings and carrying on a conversation as if in their own living room.
I secretly relished these moments as stolen chances. Moments in which I didn't have to justify my existence, I could just be. My mind would wander up and down the aisles of my memories just like I did in stores. I always felt that if I made the effort to go out and shop that I should make it an opportunity for research. One of my favorite pastimes was to find unusual but practical uses for objects. I would scan the hardware, office supply, crafts, garden or drugstores quietly trying to memorize objects for which I had no immediate use. The task that seemed to be getting more difficult these days because the stores were getting larger and there certainly seemed to be more stuff. Whenever a sticky problem occurred I would call up those memories of hours spent slowly wheeling a cart up and down store aisles to see if I could come up with a creative solution.
I thought about why I had this strange compulsion and where it had come from and remembered that in my childhood some of the best times were spent walking up and down the aisles of dime stores. These were some of my earliest memories for a dear aunt had worked as a bookkeeper for a Woolworth's for over fifty years. Fifty years of perfect attendance my aunt had proudly recounted to my in later years.
My aunt's bookkeeping office overlooked the wood-floored dime store. Late on Saturday afternoons my mother would drop me off before the store closed so I could spend the night at Aunt Syl's. My aunt would tell my to walk the aisles and I would keep an eye on me until she was finished counting and writing in columns. Always the last to leave, she had to tidy up the business of the day and prepare for the next.
The empty store had an aura of peacefulness to it. I was just tall enough to see above the counter edges. The shiny chrome clips held red and white tags with a cents sign after the number and the counters were divided by glass partitions - neat little compartments, ever adjustable, ever changing with the seasons. Slowly I would walk up and down the aisles studying objects for uses I could not even begin to understand.
I always started at the left-hand side of the store and wove my body like a ribbon up and down each shining wood-covered path. Even when sections contained objects I wasn't particularly interested in, I found it best not to interrupt my pattern. Sometimes I would make a beeline for the toy section, but it was always more fun if I did it in my usual order as the suspense would build.
I didn't realize until I was much older how much subtle information I took in on these expeditions. Long before the dawn of automatic computerized inventory systems, my counter-high strolling forays and information gathering insights could have told the manager what was selling and what wasn't. But that never seemed to be the point to a dime store anyway. It was everything you might need or want for any occasion in your life and it was always so neatly displayed and organized by category.
Later when my parents moved my far away from my roots I would visit a local dime store and play out my aisle walking ritual to the puzzlement of the clerks. They eventually grew use to the gangly child and her path winding visits and after a time no longer inquired if I was looking for something special. I felt at home on the creaky wooden floors amid the myriad of odors that accompanied such a place. I was a lonely child that missed the special affection of a favorite aunt.
At home, I would often ponder the contents of drawers and closets and wonder why things couldn't be the same way. My preference teetered between the neat orderliness of my father's drawers and the chaotic adventure of my mother's closets. It was a schizophrenic upbringing. I loved the predictability of my father's drawers, week after week, year after year, everything was always there, neat, logical, secure. Move after move I would look into his drawers and be reassured that this new place was home. Even many years later when I went to dispose of his worldly good after he died I was amazed that some things had still managed to show up in the same old familiar places, but surprised that as he got older that newly acquired objects were in disarray as evidence to the confusion that crept up on him in later years.
My mother's closets however, were rich with chaos and adventure. No rhyme or reason to why some objects occupied the same location. My mother had little sense of organization and when she put things away after a move it was done strictly on the basis of just finding the right size location for any object. My mother's most fascinating accomplishments were the linen closet, a very loose term for they rarely held linens.
Sometimes when I felt particularly bored or restless I would ask my mother if I could clean out a closet and she would reply, in a distracted manner, that it was quite all right with her. I would stand in front of the shelves as if hypnotized and summon up any wisdom I could muster to attack this task. I would group items by category or use. Sometimes it took several tries to collect all the objects. I found that one of the best ways to attack this task was to take everything out of the closet and put it on the floor. At this point my mother would invariably walk by and inquire as to why I was making such a mess. Time passed and I would finally have everything back in a somewhat logical place. I would call to my mother to come see my handiwork and she would look at the tidy shelves and nod her head unseeing of her child's brilliance. To my dismay, I noticed over the weeks that the closet gradually assumed its former configuration of chaos. My mother never seemed to complain about not finding things, she would merely push things aside and shift objects to other shelves while rummaging to the back of the shelf. The moved objects never found there way back to their logical spot but continued to play musical shelves ending up in unusual liaisons.
I never remembered my parent's in any conflict over their individual styles of organization. My own personal style was about an 80/20 mix of my parents. I felt most comfortable trying to be neat and orderly, but a small part of me longed for the kind of interesting chaos in my life that could easily be dispatched.
"Flight 292 is now arriving at gate B7," the bored voice announced over the loud speaker. Snapped from my reverie I stood up and looked for my son. So the wait had passed swiftly in my visit to the past.