TRAPPED IN AN ANTIQUE MALL By Steve Wilson
My wife and I periodically enjoy strolling through an antique mall or antiquities shop. Neither of us is necessarily an antique collector but we enjoy the memories that come flooding back at us as we slowly walk down the aisles, admiring the collision of decades as if the memory makers were all thrown into an enormous bowl, vigorously stirred and tossed back on their shelves. If history had an aroma, it would probably comprise the odorous mix of old wood, varnish, lacquer, fabric, mildew, and perhaps more than a little dust thrown in to create a musty grandma smell which excitedly greets you and embraces your olfactory system as you walk through the doors to the past. Once inside, any little bauble or ancient treasure can transport you back in time. A fragile bell-shaped glass Christmas ornament with hand-painted stripes pulled me back to when I was a child, anticipating the arrival of Santa and the special gifts he would leave. Sometimes before Christmas, I would lie on my back and scoot on top of the glitter laden cotton batting tree skirt, under the decorated tree, being ever mindful of the hot colored bulbs strung overhead and the pine needles that would dig into my skin and brush across my face if I was not careful. Once in place, I would look up, totally fascinated at my personal holiday paradise. The brightly colored lights played off the garland, ornaments, and icicles that hung from the evergreen and the pungent smell of pine intensified the total intoxication of the moment. Today, the sight of a young, small lifeless body under the decorated conifer would provoke panic and probably induce a passing thought of child endangerment, but at the time only brought about a total sense of awe and wonderment. 24 | M AG A Z I N E N A M E PAGE 3 24
On another shelf, my wife spies an Elf on the Shelf, his mischievous face frozen in time, his once bright red felt body now dark pink and showing its age. Nevertheless, Jenny is reduced to a child, her copper-haired ringlets bouncing about as she remembers searching high and low for the inanimate imp. Her freckled face lights up and her chestnut eyes grow wide as the ornery elf is discovered on the shelf above the pale blue scratchy sofa. The little six-yearold wonders if the elf saw her teasing her younger brothers and worse yet, whether the plastic dwarf had reported her misdeeds to Santa. A sense of guilt and dread filled her tiny body as she remembers confessing under her breath and promising to be good. These vignettes are just a small sampling of the memories that flood our minds as we wander about the musty aisles. We are grateful for the visual reminders or “triggers” that transport us to a particular place and time. However, as we walk out of the antique mall, we are once again made aware of the present with all its future memories to create and opportunities to explore. However, for some, the cold reality of their lives has left them emotionally paralyzed, their eyes glazed over in grief, fear, pain, or anger. The feeling of hopelessness heightens their sense of helplessness as they meander through their days. Oftentimes, their only escape from their present misery is to look back, to reminisce of better times, to linger on “the good ole days”… unaware of their present despair, they willingly lose their grasp with reality; embracing instead the jealous mistress of their distorted past. They are essentially trapped in an antique mall.
