Beginning of February in the impossible year, 2008
The morning after President Hinckley died, my closet rod came down. Just now, I’m sorry I took no pictures of this, but at the time, it wasn’t something I was ever really going to want to relive. Happened very first thing—I got up, stumbled into the bathroom, and wasn’t in there two minutes when I heard this sound, like somebody had just released the lock, retracting some absolutely huge metal measuring tape.
I had no other referent for that sound whatsoever. So of course, I wondered if Guy was on the roof. In the snowstorm, on the roof, measuring something with a gigantic metal measuring tape. And hard on the heels of that, came visions of Guy falling off said frozen roof, and thereby accidentally releasing the catch on the gigantic metal measuring tape.
It takes me a while to come fully awake. Actually, it doesn’t happen till I’ve done the treadmill. Which probably means I should stop going straight from bed to the car to the barn. I don’t have to go far to feed the horses, straight down Center Street—and I’m fully confident about heading down there in my pajamas—but now that I think of it, driving with your eyes half-closed is never that smart. Especially when there’s a school crossing involved.
Shockingly ugly, sleepy mother, on her way to the car. She does not sleep in the boots. Actually, these are not her jimmies; more like her exercise clothes.
Anyway, it wasn’t until I dodged into the closet to find my running shoes that I realized what had happened: I had been visited with a metaphor for my life. The first thing that flashed before my eyes was the magnitude of the job I now had before me: finding my shoes under several hundred pounds of wool and cotton. And then, of course, there was the clean-up.
If I were a sensible person, the rod probably wouldn’t have come down in the first place. But I am more like a geological phenomenon—mother Earth and I both collect layers. It is exactly the opposite of a rolling stone, which is funny, because what else is the planet really, when you think about it? And it’s not like there’s a lot of dust to collect in the great vacuum of space. Or maybe there is. Which would explain my house.
You know the way people will come along and write “Wash Me” with their finger across the sad surface of a dirty car? My father did that once across the lid of my ancient baby grand piano. I think it is unfair that, even if you are not doing anything wrong, and are, in fact, doing many things right, dust can just come along and finally, force a crisis. In your house. Your private inner sanctums. The only place where this evidently cannot happen is usually populated by people in white space suits and really clean gloves. Or maybe in my sister-in-law’s house, but it’s hard to tell; she has a maid.
I dust. I do it regularly, at least once a season. Sometimes more. It depends on what else I’m doing in life, because the truth is, I pretty much exist in motion. You have to hold still to see dust. For me, holding still is a matter of standing on the brakes and the gas at the same time.
Dust. I have kind of swept some of it up into bunnies to demonstrate my negligence all the more dramatically.
So here is this closet rod, exposing to me the follies of my life, prime among them, the irrepressible belief that someday, I’m going to lose the weight. This is why I still keep clothes I wore twenty years ago. It has something to do with remembering what if felt like to wear them, way back when I was young. Are my eyes fully open yet? No, or I would notice that the clothes should have been buried with the eighties (that’s ‘8os), especially the ones with waistbands. Or maybe with the nineties. But not only am I sure that someday, button may yet again meet buttonhole, but that FASHION WILL CYCLE.
What president of the church admonished us never to waste anything? Was he talking to women who have weak closet rods? Perfectly serviceable tuxedo shirt/blouses should not just be cast off. Fake-paper-bag-waisted skirts can be altered. Dresses I do not want to wear anymore may suddenly grow new charm. And I know I’m going to find something, someday, to wear with my broomstick skirts—that’s a shoo-in; I’m an author, even if I’m not from Arizona.
The problem is facing the truth. I hang on to things. I can’t shake something out sternly, exercising my otherwise critical eye and say, “You – with all your past associations and really cute little flower pattern, and potential for—something—you are banished.” Because what else might I be throwing out? On a pragmatic level, when the harsh and heartless mood is on me and the dust flies out my windows, I do tend to go over-board. I lost my grandfather’s ancient gold cufflink (made into a necklace for me by my father, and worn every day for five years) when I—in an insane surge of sanity—finally gave up an old purse to Good Will.
This was the closet rod that was supposed to be mine when we designed the closet. I only had a couple of dresses and was pretty sure I’d never own more. Uh-huh. That was back when I was pregnant all the time and had given up any thought of using a mirror for the rest of my life. It was a good idea, considering what I see on a daily basis these days
Here’s the end of the story: while things are collapsing in my closet, and in some ways, in my life, it is good not to be alone. It took Guy—who had not fallen off the roof—fifteen minutes to hang that closet rod back up, and to replace all the weight of my past lives and hopes for the future back onto it. And, in the process, he found about fifty empty hangers.
And as long as this new rod arrangement stays put, I can say as proudly as any other woman of grit: Tomorrow is another day.
Oh- and what was that sound I’d heard? Thousands of metal hanger-hooks, sliding down a metal rod. It really does sound like I said it did. Try it. You’ll be amazed.
Murphy before having his teeth removed. He is looking at a dog who is almost buried in the snow.
Self portrait. Without pajamas
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