I Knew You Before I Knew You

My older daughter, Claire, works in the dining room of a nearby nursing home.  She loves her job and the folks who live there, and they, in turn, love her sweet, smiling face.  I think watching my dad's decline, as hard as it was, gave her a sense of compassion for the elderly, and she treats them with much dignity.  More than once she has said, "They used to have lives outside of this nursing home..."

One gentleman, Mr. Farmer, reminds her of her Poppy.  She told him when she first started working there that he reminded her of her grandpa, and he said that she reminded him of his granddaughter.  They became friends, and Claire has gone in to visit Mr. Farmer on occasion, taking him coffee from Starbucks and listening to tapes of the songs he wrote when he was young.  He has Parkinson's now, and can no longer sing or play the guitar, but he was quite the musician at one time.

Mr. Farmer has a roommate named Elmer who has lost use of one arm.  Elmer is a little bit crotchety and sarcastic and teases a little hard. He was married 3 times and swears a lot.  Claire says he always asks her if she's got a boyfriend and if she's married yet.  She said he doesn't smile much.  She treats him kindly and said she feels guilty going to see Mr. Farmer and not Elmer.

Last week, Claire went in to work early to visit Mr. Farmer and try to figure out how they can get people to play his music.  She was telling me about the visit and how Elmer came in and was kind of jealous because nobody really comes to see him.   I asked her how come she called Mr. Farmer "Mr. Farmer" and Elmer "Elmer" and not by his last name.

She said, "Everybody just calls him Elmer.  I don't know why."

For some reason, I asked if she knew his last name, and she replied, "Yes, it's Walton."

"Elmer Walton?" I replied with surprise. "Did he own a barbershop?"

"I don't know," she answered, "but that sounds right.  I can check this weekend when I work.  Why?"

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In 1998, Kyle had really bad hair.  He had cowlicks all over his head, and his hair stuck out like straw.  No amount of product could tame that mop.  He hated getting his haircut. Fought it.  Cried and screamed.  Sometimes I'd have to hold him on my lap to get through it.  Cookie Cutters was a no-go with all of the cool chairs and movies and balloons at the end.  There was just too much to distract him.  Supercuts or Fantastic Sam folks could not get the haircut right, and he'd end up looking worse than when we went in.  What he needed was a good, old-fashioned barbershop, and I found one just down the street from our house in the old neighborhood where we lived.

You guessed it...Walton's Barber Shop.

Walton's was the kind of place your dad would have gone to.  It was in the front room of an old shotgun house on a busy road.  The name "Walton's Barber Shop" was painted across the picture window and two old time barber chairs were set up in the space.  Jars of blue barbacide, clippers, and a brush sat on the shelves behind the chairs, and big mirrors covered the back wall.  A Coca Cola clock hung between the barber stations and under it was a calendar from the local car dealership.  A television set to the race of the day was mounted in the corner.  Red leather chairs sat along the side, some of them so old the leather had cracked.  Stacks of magazines piled in baskets next to the chairs, and a bin of Legos was available for any kids that might have to wait.  But the clincher was the bucket of Bazooka Bubble Gum on the counter.  I saw that and knew this was the place for a haircut for Kyle.

The barbers were brothers who had turned their mom's house into a barbershop.  It had been there for many, many years, and sometimes one or both of them would be there, either one able to whip Kyle's locks into shape.  He loved going to Walton's.  They always treated his three-year-old self like a grown up.

"You got a girlfriend?" they'd ask.  "You married yet?"  He thought it was so funny that grown ups would think he was old enough to get married.

They would pull out the bench and set it on the arms of the barber chair, help Kyle up, and get to work.  He never fussed.  He never complained.  He just climbed up onto the bench and sat still while one of the Walton brothers went to work, buzzing and clipping and powdering his neck off.  When they were done, he'd get two pieces of gum.  One for now and one for the road.  They'd shake his hand and tell him to watch out for the girls, and send us on our way.

One day when Kyle was 3 1/2, I documented his day in pictures and turned it into a book called Kyle's Day.  He got a haircut that day, and I took some pictures of him at Walton's.  We went to lunch afterward and then to a church picnic.  It was an ordinary day in our lives, but special too.  I made a book for his grandparents who lived out of town and kept a copy of us.  He loved reading it.

Kyle getting a haircut from Elmer's brother.  I wish I had a picture of Elmer.

Notice the tightly closed hand holding the coveted gum.

As Claire got older, and hard to keep down, she'd end up on that floor full of hair happily playing with the Legos while Kyle got his hair cut.  Gross, for sure, but it was once every couple of months, and I'd just throw both of them in the tub to get them cleaned off after a visit to Waltons.  She felt so grown up when she was finally allowed to have gum.

We stopped going to Walton's after we moved when Kyle was in kindergarten.  We tried getting a haircut there a few times, but it was out of the way, and he was old enough to go to Big League Barbers in the shopping center across the street, so that's what we did.

A couple of years ago, I was driving past Walton's and saw that it had closed.  It made me sad.

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When Claire went to work last week, she found Elmer and asked him if he'd ever owned a barbershop.

"Hell yeah I did," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"Oh my gosh," she said, "you used to cut my brother's hair when he was little!  I used to come in there with my mom and Kyle and play with the Lego blocks you had in the corner."

He replied,  "Well, isn't that something?"

"And you had a big bucket of gum!" she said. "I loved that gum!  I have a lot of memories of going to your barbershop!"

She smiled.  "Elmer," she said, "I knew you before I knew you!"

His face began to soften, and then it was his turn to smile.

The Wallet

I have no memory of the kind of wallet I carried before I got this one.   I’ve had it so long that I don’t even remember exactly when I got it.  High school?  College?  Probably college, but I’m not sure.  My mom gave it to me for Christmas, I think, or my birthday.  I remember she told me she agonized over what I would like, and settled on a practical, brown leather wallet similar to the one she had carried for years.

My wallet at the end of its life.

Her wallet was so full that it wouldn’t snap closed.  Besides her driver’s license and credit cards, it housed a little cash, photos, grocery lists (many were months old), receipts from Melton Food Mart, Target, and The Dollar Tree, holy cards, an “I am a Catholic. Please call a priest” card, odd scraps of paper with phone numbers or address on them, and an occasional quarter or dime that had found its way in between the papers when she dropped her change down into her purse.  Her checkbook and register were in there as well, although most of the time, her register was full, and she would write the check number and amount along the edge or back of it.  I don’t think I ever saw her balance it.

I asked her once how she ever found anything in that wallet and suggested she needed a new one.  She said liked her wallet and knew where things were.  She still had it, still stuffed with stuff, when she died.  I went through each piece of paper and holy card and receipt later, and kept a few things.  They were like little snapshots of her life.   The paper with the phone number from St. Elizabeth’s is where my sister had her daughter in 2004, but I kept it because Mom had blotted her lipstick on that piece of paper.  The Holy Family holy card was from a friend at church, and the Blessed Mother card was from one of my mom’s best friends. The picture of Kyle was taken his first Christmas when we lived in Hawaii.  The other inspirational cards and quotes just reminded me of how she lived her life:  for her family, with faith.

The items from my mom's wallet.  I keep them in my jewelry box.

                                          

Even though I didn’t really like this wallet when I got it, I kept it.  It looked like a “mom wallet,” and I was 19 or 20, but I didn’t want to hurt my mom’s feelings by taking it back. Then I moved to Texas, and it became a kind of connection to her.  It followed me to Arizona then Hawaii then back to Kentucky.  It got worn around the edges and the inside started wearing out, and I really needed a new one.  Then Mom died, and I just couldn’t let it go.

Over the years, my wallet filled to the point where I could no longer snap it closed.  Receipts from Kroger and Qdoba; rewards cards from Kinney Dance Store and The Popcorn Station; library cards and photos and holy cards made closing it all but impossible.  My only hope was that everything didn’t fall out inside my purse.  Once in awhile, I’d cull through things and get it to where it almost snapped, but that would never last long.  Soon, it would be popping open again.  One of my girls suggested I needed a new one.

This past spring break, we were staying with 8 teenagers in a rental house in Florida, and I wasn’t positive they’d remember to lock the door when they left.  I’m pretty safety-conscious, and so I always hide my wallet whenever I’m on vacation and not taking it with me.  This time, I put it in a pair of pants in my dirty clothes basket.  It stayed there all week with no problems.  Then on the last day, I did laundry.  I forgot my wallet was inside the pants, and when I opened up the washing machine, a big ball of wet paper gunk greeted me.  Credit cards and my driver’s license were stuck to the drum.  My wallet was destroyed.  So were my photos and my holy cards and the snapshots of my life over the past 25 years. 

After the wash.

I tried to dry my wallet out, but it was beyond help.  The only piece of paper that wasn’t shredded was a Christmas list from when the kids were little.  I’m thinking 2009 because it says Dad owed, “$10 poinsettia,” and Kyle was selling poinsettias when he was in 8^th grade.  It took me back to see what my kids were getting for Christmas that year.  It’s been a long time since I’ve bought them toys, and it made me nostalgic to remember that.

   

Christmas shopping list, 2009

I finally tossed my poor, sad wallet into the trash.  I took a picture of the Christmas list and then threw it away too.  I called my friend to see if she had another holy card she could send me to put in my new wallet whenever I get one.  My credit cards, reward cards, and IDs are in a Ziploc bag in my purse until I can figure out whether I want a practical, brown leather “mom wallet” or something more fun.

Not that there’s really any doubt what I’ll end up with!