Memoirs of a Geezer!
Reflections and Observations -- A Bright Passage from the Fantasies of Youth
to Illuminations of Advanced Maturity!
This Episode: Eccentricity is a Virtue... Isn't it (!?)
As a younger man -- somewhere, perhaps, in my late 30's to mid-40's -- at the height of my powers as, quite possibly, the hemisphere's most inept salesperson, I had a career in sales at a promotional marketing company of some prominence. (I should have listened to my father and found work as a civil servant with a guaranteed pension at the end of obligatory servitude!) Some years ago, the company was absorbed by a larger firm and is now but a memory in the annals of sales and marketing mythology. At the time, the company for which I labored had a most impressive product showroom from which clients, employees and their families were empowered to make wholesale purchases of varied merchandise.
After much cajoling by my delightful and memorable mother (who departed the mortal sphere some two dozen years ago), I invited her to visit that inviting and richly appointed showroom to shop and, in theory, effect purchases to her heart's content. She accepted. My dear mother alternately prowled about the showroom like a preying leopard or flew and flitted, a great wattled crane in search of sustenance, plucking up and inspecting each gorgeous gift and bauble for an hour and a half, perhaps it was fully two hours, eventually paying for and preparing to make off with bags full of "practically stolen" (her words) treasures.
Each product offered in the showroom was represented by a single "not-for-purchase" sample. The inventory was kept in a commodious warehouse located behind the sales counter. And each was identified by a product number and priced, using a special secret code, that we who worked for the company freely divulged to clients and family members without compunction.
"Oh my gosh," my mother exclaimed repeatedly. "Is that all this thing costs!" She was pleased. I asked her frequently to keep her voice modulated as I didn't want her to call attention to herself as a would-be daily or weekly devotee, perhaps losing her, and my, privileges as a showroom shopper. Eventually, I carried her purchases outside and loaded them into her large red automobile, kissed and bid her goodbye, and then returned through the showroom headed for my office in another wing at the rear of the company's sprawling building.
As I made my way through, one of the two women who ran the showroom stopped me and asked in genuine wonder and unconcealed excitement, "Who was that lady?!"
I should explain. My mother was dressed in what I labeled her "Atla the Hun" hat, a bright purple affair ringed by fuzzy purple fur and forming a pyramid-like point at its apex. She wore
a leopard-skin-print jacket and skirt, purple and red shoes that had upturned, Persian-looking toe features, enough jewelry to outfit Istanbul's Grand Bazaar -- including at least eight rings, a giant brooch and several layers of necklaces -- and enormous purple-framed glasses, secured by a golden chain, to complete the ensemble. My mother was nothing if not eccentric in dress and behavior.
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| Not my mom... but, you get the idea! |
Responding to the surprised showroom co-manager's question, I said, perhaps predictably, "That was no lady, that was my mom!" Both showroom women registered shock and then mild astonishment, finally bursting into great eruptions of laughter. I then added, to forestall their probable embarrassment, "My mother would be offended if she were not regarded as extravagantly eccentric. You should see her artwork." At that, and without waiting for further comment from the two women, I walked briskly to my office.
It wasn't long after that, my wife and I were attending a surprise party, one of a series of such events that a good friend of ours obnoxiously foisted annually upon his spouse, a highly reluctant recipient. She was and is, unfailingly -- fortunately for their marriage -- not merely a good sport, but possessed of a sweet and accepting disposition. I was engaging in what my wife insists is my customary ridiculous and silly, at times, somewhat outrageous behavior, enhanced on that occasion by generous inhalation of spirited beverages. My friend's aging mother was residing with his family at the time. At evening's end, according to my friend who reported to me by telephone the following morning, "My mother says you're almost eccentric."
Slightly offended by the modifier, "almost" -- but knowing how proud my own mother would be -- the comment was high praise, and in the end I felt richly complimented. When I mentioned the remark to her, my mother said, "You're lucky you take after me, and not your father, who, as you know, prefers to be an ancient curmudgeon."
At my current age, I cherish the label, and like an expensive suit of clothes, I prefer to be cloaked in eccentricity vs. any number of optional identifiers. And even though I may still embarrass my children and grandchildren, I think they harbor a kind of secret admiration, not for me alone, but for all who float obliviously on a billowy cloud of Eccentricity.
Humbly Submitted, 04-24-14 -- Joel K.
