Drugstore Manqué

One of the tasks following my grandparents’ passing was to go through all of their things and dispose/disperse as appropriate. It was fairly straightforward as these things go – I would imagine that most people doing this chore are confronted with memories and mold in about equal proportion.

My grandparents were of substantial means, thanks to my grandfather’s successful home building career and their relatively modest appetites. They were children of the (first) Great Depression, and were thus averse to excessive expenditure (or at least the appearance thereof). There were exceptions over the years (furs and Cadillacs), but we noticed their parsimony most when we were ourselves feeling a bit short. They saved their largess for the estate. No complaints here.

As I went through their belongings, I reconstructed aspects of their lives that weren’t so apparent while they were living.

Although they had a modern house and a regular house cleaner (and my grandmother was often seen on her knees scrubbing the floors), I came upon (disgusting) evidence of a thriving mouse population.

They had an extensive library, but it was clear that they had devolved over the years from Faulkner to Updike to Michener to Grisham to (Harold) Robbins.

My grandfather’s tools were dated, as he had purchased these things in his younger years. Vintages ranged from a heavy Craftsman electric drill with attached chuck key to hand drills and bit braces. Screws and nails and the like were stored in baby-food jars (some even with their lids screwed to the underside of the shelves, just like in my dad’s shop). I inherited these things gladly and incorporated them into my own growing organization of hardware. I don't know if he ever really used these things, for he wasn't in least handy around the house. A Case Western Reserve scholar in Engineering. Go figure.

To me, their most astounding (and revealing) collection was amassed in their declining years, and was discovered in their spacious bathroom. I have to believe that you have never seen such a variety of band-aids and bandages outside of a drug store. If you were poor, or even if you were only frugal, you would find a band-aid, depending on how organized you were, in one drawer or another, and that would be it. I had to speculate that my grandparents must have rushed out to the store each and every time they required bandaging, and made sure on each visit to obtain every possible configuration of bandage upon each visit. From butterflies to plaster bandages, steri-strips, waterproof, sheer, knuckle, sport, knee and elbow, hypoallergenic, antibacterial, antibiotic, clear, fabric, blister, callous, non-stick, active, and extreme length. Not to mention Sponge-Bob or Stars and Smiley Faces. I must have found a dozen bottles of Campho-Phenique, and countless repetitions of Robitussin, Vapo-Rub, Alka-Seltzer, and Milk of Magnesia. The list would go on for pages. You can’t sell this stuff (although I once saw someone trying to sell their toiletries at a garage sale before I had context for this preposterous conduct). To make matters worse, although I figured that we’d save a reasonable amount of the stuff, its combined aroma is so revolting that it evokes a gag reflex. Whenever I open the large plastic bin containing our retained portion of this medical stockpile, I must be prepared to hold my breath while I dig for the required item. It’s a testament to modern packaging that you can walk down the aisle of a drugstore without experiencing the smallest bit of this miasmic discomfiture.

Every man serves a useful purpose: A miser, for example, makes a wonderful ancestor.
Laurence J. Peter