Being Memorable

I was reading an article in USA Today by Craig Wilson who regularly appears in the “Life” section (also known as the section most likely to be dragged into the john around my house). I like Craig Wilson and always look forward to his columns. I can relate to his “slice of life” musings because I like to write about those things too. In his most recent column, he talked about his thoughts as he takes public transportation to work. How he looks at the strangers around him and wonders about their lives. I can totally relate. I do that in my own household: Who are you and why are you taking $20 out of my wallet? Wearing my Gucci pumps? (Relax…I have teenage daughters.)

Like Craig Wilson, I have also always given more than a passing thought to people who seem interesting or inscrutable. Usually, I have to admit, it’s because of their outward appearance. They just stick out. Some I see wandering around town. Others are in my family. And some are busy hatching embryos and falling on the mercy of California taxpayers…but that’s another column.

I was reminded of Craig’s column today as I drove through my quaint little town of Haddonfield, NJ. There’s a gentleman who lives here—and I won’t use his real name, especially since I can’t even remember it—named Bill. Bill is a guy who has lived here his whole life and I sincerely doubt he’ll ever live anywhere else. I’m guessing he’s about 40 and I know he has a little house somewhere, but if you didn’t know better, you’d swear he was homeless. Today I was driving through town, I spied him “on patrol” around 9:30 a.m., easily recognizable as he bounced along the sidewalk with his long grey hair and beard spreading out like ashy roots beneath his bright red stocking cap. A sensible trench coat, jeans and sneakers completed the ensemble. But what sets Bill apart is his briefcase—old school, black leather with brass spring latches. Like the one I got for Christmas after I graduated from college. (I can still remember how pointedly my parents looked at me when I pulled the wrapping paper off of that little wake-up call.)

Bill is the kind of guy that visitors to our town would instinctively know is probably not wearing deodorant, just by looking at him. But Bill serves his purpose here—he’s the conscience of our town. No matter the weather, no matter the season, he is on patrol, peering at medians in need of beautification, calling attention to parking regulations, demanding better snow removal and attending every City Council meeting with a written agenda in hand. I would love to pop open his briefcase and sift through the contents. Would there be clues to his past? How and why he’s wired the way he is? Or maybe he’s collecting birds’ nests or pizza crusts or grass clippings…who knows. All I do know about him is that he is a steady presence, the unheralded sentinel of Haddonfield. And though we may look at him askance or sigh when he raises his hand to interrupt our mayor, we can concede that Bill has a mission and a credo—how many people can say that about themselves?

There’s another woman who wanders around town, though I don’t see her as often. I don’t know her name and her purpose is much less obvious to me, but she is also quite distinctive. She is rail thin, maybe in her late 30’s, early 40’s, with long blond hair. When I first saw her walking along the street as I was driving by, I did a double take and almost knocked over my Dairy Queen malt. She looked like an apparition, in a long flowy dress with an extremely pregnant belly, so at odds with her stalky arms and legs. And her expression didn’t look right—there was something hazy and unfocused about her. I filed her away in the “To be continued…” folder in my brain.

I saw her again about 6 months later on a hot summer day. She had taken refuge inside one of the boutiques and as I came inside, I recognized her immediately. But funny thing—she was still extremely pregnant. Now my sense of curiosity was on high alert, but I also felt compassion. What was the back story here? An unbearable loss? A private pain expressed in a public way?

I have not seen her since, but she’s part of our town’s fabric too.

In my own family, I have an aunt, my mother’s only sibling, who is not exactly mainstream. I can remember when I was a kid, my mom would ask me not to tell my friends about Aunt Carole. It wasn’t that she was such a wack job I realize now, it was more that my parents were such straight arrows and probably did not want anyone knowing about the crazy things my sister and I witnessed on our visits alone with my Aunt. She took us to see an Indian guru, joined the Baha’i faith, killed a rattlesnake with a shovel right in front of us and then made into a soup, joined the Libertarian party and ran for mayor, smoked pot, stuck her dead dog in the freezer and performed her own taxidermy …the list goes on. I think it was more than my southern Republican parents could take. Even I had to do damage control after she told my bridesmaids at my wedding that she had purchased 365 pairs of underwear so she would only have to do laundry once a year.

Unlike the eccentrics wandering around Haddonfield, I know what’s in my Aunt Carole’s briefcase; an unsettled childhood and a propensity for artistic genius. But having her in my childhood was thrilling—every visit was an exotic spin of the dial and some of my most vivid young memories are of adventures in her care.

There have been plenty of other interesting folks that have crossed my paths through the years. A woman I’d pass in the halls at work who would only wear black and white, a blind guy who would walk the neighborhood for exercise every day, come rain, snow sleet or hail, a strange woman who liked to walk around town wearing shoe polish as bronzer. They all have stories to tell, I’m sure. I’ll likely never know their stories, but I’ve filled in their blanks on my own. They’re part of my memory and my story now.

Will anyone think of me this way? Have I done anything to deserve more than a passing thought? Does my back story warrant further exploration? Probably not. But it’s an aspiration of mine to leave my mark on this earth.

There’s a PR and Design firm in town that always runs an ad in our town’s paper, The Haddonfield Sun. I look forward to their ads and I love their tagline: Above all, Be Memorable.

Not a bad way to live.