Shoes in the Hallway

We had trouble remembering most every. single. year. I've got to give credit to my brother; it's because of him that, all but probably the very last year we were living in our childhood bedrooms (which would've been his senior year of high school, my junior year) he's the reason I'd put a pair of shoes outside my bedroom door for Saint Nicholas.

For some reason we didn't grow up really acknowledging saints' days in our household. For numerous reasons I've since learned quite a few; some I can more specifically pinpoint the exact day of the month than others. As a kid I'd just remember that Saint Nicholas Day was in the single-digit days of December. Not too shabby, though not great either.

We'd be getting ready for bed (as we were supposed to be) simultaneously. We'd be figuring out what we'd be wearing to school the following day & making sure that our homework was in place...Getting our teeth brushed before we were to be turning out the hallway light & officially crawling in bed. He'd call to me from his room next door & say something like, "Put a pair of shoes outside your door tonight." Or, "Don't forget about putting your shoes in the hallway before you get in bed." I'd find a pair quickly & put them in place right away so as not to forget...At least not for another 365 days! 😂

Most years this exchange would happen before the hallway light got switched off & before we were nestling into our flannel sheets & blankets. A few times he had to get up after we'd hit the hallway light switch, as well as our respective bedroom switches, & specifically come to my door & knock because he'd forgotten until after he'd been laying there unwinding.

I'd likely have grabbed these, or in later years maybe these if the company had begun selling them by that time; I don't believe the latter pair had been on the market during my really young years. Another likely option would've been these. I remember, probably around the time I was in junior high, I'd just gotten a new pair & was "testing them out" & making sure they fit well, initially wearing them only in the house after having purchased them with Mom along.

Dad & I were waiting outside to get in the family minivan; it was after dinner & well beyond dusk on a late Fall day. I believe we were all headed back to school at night for an event. As I walked down the front walk, which led to the driveway, I said aloud, "Well, I won't be able to take these shoes back to the store anymore." since I'd just walked outside while wearing them, a big "no, no" for store return policies at that time.

Dad's response while chuckling at me, "You weren't going to return them anyway." as he smiled & turned his body mid-chuckle & smacked his lips together in satisfaction of knowing how right he really was. His hands stowed in his pants pockets (even while he'd be slowly walking about) & wearing his Fall jacket unzipped so the front portions of the jacket's fabric bunched up underneath of his arms, into his armpits all the while classically wearing one of these atop his head. This was standard "Dad Look". Yes, Dad, true, very true. I only owned a pair of this type of shoe at most every point of my adolescence. Really, I may've had more of them than of that which is in the image link. Most of the pants I wore went well with this sort of shoe; it was "my thing".

I really can't recall even one year that I thought about placing my shoes outside my bedroom door all on my own. I'd have so much anxiety about the next day & general preparation. With school projects & assignments due, I'd not left a moment to squeeze in my psyche about setting a pair of my shoes outside my bedroom door before falling asleep.

That final year before we began spending our Saint Nicholas Day's studying for fall semester college finals in our dorm rooms, or at least somewhere on the campus of the college where we were attending, (which is when Mom began mailing to us at college what would've been left in our shoes had we been living in our bedrooms back at their house rather than in our dorm rooms) we completely forgot. That's right. I was already on a life-long roll of never remembering & my brother basically "took a year off" 😂 Ha, ha!

So Mom got out a pair of her shoes; I do believe it was just one pair, (maybe sort of similar to how we shared this pair? 😎😂) & she put what would've been in our shoes, in each of her shoes, for us. Our pairs of shoes would've been placed side-by-side along a section of wall separating our bedrooms, which, from the hallway might've measured about 4' wide, tops. It was in this same few feet of space that Mom had left her two shoes (rather than two pairs) bumper-to-bumper. So her pair of shoes had been left sitting "together" though serving this dual purpose; it worked.

Even after college graduation Mom would mail a package to where I was living at the time. Something happened, maybe a decade later, a kerfuffle, if you will. Mom basically said, "Well, since that's happened..." And our packages seized to be. The kerfuffle had been a misunderstanding (ostensibly the exact definition of a kerfuffle), though Mom's never reignited sending said packages in this way....Except, I believe, with her grandchildren. 😞

Special, specific memories of certain Saint Nicholas Day shoe finds? I know Mom explained that whatever she'd collected that had been intended for our stockings...Something that would've been "stocking overflow"...That's the sort of thing she'd (I mean, Saint Nicholas would 😎😍) have set aside to fill our shoes.

The whole of the Day is ultimately a bittersweet one; it's obvious I'm left with some "oh, well" memories in regard to Mom, while at the same time it's an acknowledgement, a nod to my brother, on truly being a big brother (& perhaps a loving one at that? 😇😍😂). Even if only for a moment, once a year. 😇😍😂😎😛

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Getting It All Dry

When we'd camp in one place long enough, we were "those people" who'd hang one of these up. It'd be super convenient once we'd all been showered for the day, where we'd line up all of our wet things to be dried & ready for the following day. Eventually, for this purpose, we eventually got one of these. We weren't always able to rely on having trees growing in a strategically convenient manner at our campsite; nor we were always able to rely on even having trees (or shade of any sort for that matter) at the campsite at which we'd be "assigned". Some of the campgrounds where we'd stay didn't have any trees on their sites, sans their seasonal patrons.

To reduce the likelihood of it blowing over (which happened at least once), Dad found a few extra we had of these for the just in case moments like this, & hammered one in place on either side at the foot.

We quickly began to get a solid system in place, making sure to hang our large towels on the wide posts & saving the smaller sections for our tiny washcloths. Mom would take what we used to clean up the family's dishes after camp meals & hang them up here too.

I was never a fan of the process that became of how our "at camp" meal dishes got cleaned & dried. I dealt with it, sure; & yes, I also survived. Yet only the word "despised" comes to mind when I ponder the process & how it happened to become "my & Dad's 'thing'" over the years ... & no one else's. Urgh.

Apparently the process began simple as can be, with Mom & Dad suggestively asking that I carry said pile of dishes over to the washing basin located on the backside of the washroom with a "kitchen" counter specifically designated for such purposes. I cannot purse my lips & face enough to amplify the not-good-ness of this sequence & scenario. Oftentimes I'd take my bike, which made the trek & overall experience a bit simpler & better; my bike had a basket, although rather small, which helped for speed & transportation purposes. Really, I just wanted the task *over* with...& *very* fast.

Dad would do the washing & scrubbing, which was nice because sometimes whatever he'd cook up would become a big "to do" & be a slimy mess worthy of those liquid kitchen soap commercial before & after's. It was my task to get things over to the counter & back to the camper where, for the most part, Mom would take care to relieve the items from me & get them where they belonged in the drawers, compartments, baskets, etc. I'd help make space on that counter that Dad was using while he washed & scrubbed by scooting things nearer to him in a systematic way (either the next obvious item or one which Dad would suggestively request be placed 'nearer-by' than it's previous position atop the counter). Most was anticipated based on stacking ability & ease in basket positioning.

Since oftentimes it was from our breakfast that we'd be cleaning up, it was obvious what we'd have to wash & dry. An immediate analogy that comes to mind is a sports announcer with which listeners are accustomed to hearing particular shenanigans throughout the game's duration. Such was the symmetry of washing up a hot tea mug for Mom (it was a white based one with a sewing-related slogan on it) & a coffee mug for Dad (it was a black base for which I don't remember the rest); both were plastic & not ceramic at all, which is why these mugs were brought along camping & not any of our others. Also, a stirring teaspoon for each. The rest would vary depending on how elaborately "homemade" & "from scratch" that Dad would prepare our meal. If we'd be enjoying an item, such as a coffeecake, from the nearest grocery store, then the electric skillet's base wouldn't need to be scrubbed at all, as we'd not have had eggs, or any pork fat along with it. (Although we'd also not have had any protein either 😂...retrospective cynicism at its best!) Also, we'd typically eat off of paper plates, which we'd often keep in a way as to be using them, as I incorrectly define as kindling, for our next campfire, likely later on that same day. The juice, & if we'd have milk too, which, if we did, we'd be having along with breakfast, we'd drink from these. Remember this post? 😊😉😜

I found these campground washing basins & subsequent, adjacent counters to be, well, gross. They never seemed up to par for me & the overall cleanliness we needed & should have. I never felt that our dishes were really being cleaned, though Dad would always have them in the pan & never directly in the sink's basin. He'd even wash up the pan after he finished up, &, whenever we'd have a lot of dishes with a meal (more than likely a dinner than a breakfast or lunch), he'd go the extra mile & stack the final random washables in the cleaned out pan when he carried it back to our site. Our dirty or clean dishes atop those counters always seemed to be negating the very purpose of cleaning any of them: sanitization; apparently I just cannot be satisfied on this.

Also, in this process, it was my duty to be drying these dishes. Dad washed & scrubbed, then handed off to me, primed & ready with a drying towel slapped over my shoulder. (He had one too because, why not?) In an actual kitchen I "treasure" washing dishes. I'd actually willingly skip out on dishwasher ownership, really, I would. I find dishwashing as meditative as mowing lawn, as I wrote about here, & washing & folding up laundry; I despise drying dishes. I'm not the biggest fan of the "putting dishes away" task either, though this one is more inevitable, so there's that whole general necessity-of-life thing in there too.

When we finished up with our all-too-frequent task of washing, drying, & putting away, the dishtowels we'd been using & the dishcloth with which Dad had been scrubbing joined in among the remaining inches of space left by the items we'd hung post showering.

Looking back, I obviously used this bike the most often, rather than this bike. Which makes sense, in part, especially based on when I finally got the latter one. There was no basket attached on the latter one, though at about the time that latter one joined our household is about the time that us kids weren't so much "kids" anymore & had summertime plans, activities to attend to, &, well, eventually first official jobs. And gone became the days of washing dishes with Dad at camp. I tell ya, I still, to this day, believe it'd be rather "gross". Even if that is a "kid-like" description & defense 😁😂.

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Daylight Savings Time is Approaching, So is Springtime

This is *my* time of the year. Eastertime is approaching. Pastels are the colors of the Springtime season, all is a-new in nature, *&* there's more daylight. At this time next Sunday, we'll be completing our days in Daylight Savings Time. 'Tis bliss. A regular joke is how we spend more time of the year in Daylights Savings Time than we do in Standard Time, so technically their names should be switched out (& maybe 'Preserving the Few Daylight Hours We Have Time' can become the name of the current Standard Time weeks of the year.

I feel such encouragement from this time of the year; I feel that the possibilities are endless. A second chance at everything that wasn't working out before. It's simply through daylight, though extra minutes are added onto each day, both morning & evening. That's something worth waking up for.

Ground will be broken; seeds will be planted. Kites will be flown; flags & banners will be hung. Birds will be chirping. Baskets will be packed for picnics. Cabin fever will come to a close as weekend morning walkers & runners will rejoice along sidewalks & curbsides, parks & trails with their front row seat for the sun's rise.

Others get excited on opening day at the ballpark. I feel that same excitement (maybe even more so!) when the second Sunday in March is rounding the corner. At 2 a.m. we lose an hour & gain happiness & hope, gratitude & glee, joy & jocund. Yes, unlike Autumn (a.k.a. 'Fall'), where we gain an hour the first Sunday of November, we lose an hour the second Sunday of March. The rewards make it so worth it.

Learning a new word: Kudos

Perusing Amazon's main page & considering some of the items listed in their "Related to Items You Viewed" section, I happened to glance up to that area where I'm reminded in what year it was that I made my very first Amazon.com purchase, when I became an Amazon.com customer. One of my first purchases I still remember. It was a book. A paperback book. Just one. I was a student in college at the time & had noticed a book which mentioned the store name "Kmart" in its title. Though a dormitory-living student, when back home with my parents during school breaks I clocked in at the local Kmart, most often as a store cashier. Seeing the store's name listed in the title of a book, I had to have it. And so I did. And it became one of my first online purchases.

Aside from all the ordinary & obvious lessons & things learned from collegiate age retail employment, I recall the word "kudos". The routine newsletter that circulated within the store contained a section titled, Kudos for Kmart. This section easily made me proud to be a Kmart employee & definitely warmed my heart. I've never remembered any particular story or tidbit from that newsletter, yet I know I've used the word, as a term, or declaration in engaging with others, as in responding, "Kudos!" with a broad smile, verbally applauding them. I am also one of those, who heartedly states, "Greetings & Salutations" when a greeting is most appropriate as "What's up?" & "How's your weather?" or "How was your drive here? How long did it take you?" just aren't my style.

Merriam-Webster's definition of Kudos, which basically synonymizes the word with prestige.

My definition, or understanding of Kudos: a job well done, a job admired, a job appreciated. The prestige is in the open acknowledgement. That's my take...from first seeing the word on an internal newsletter, in the break room, as a college student. Really kids, you learn so much while you're in college - whether you're actually in the college, or simply "in" college, enrolled as a student.