Safety of a List Doesn't Always Last

Here is something my Gram had published in our local newspaper. It is dated January 26, 1986.

Safety of a List Doesn't Always Last

I have heard of people who have total recall and do not have to write things down in order to remember them.

I have heard of them but if you will show me someone who doesn’t make lists, I’ll show you someone who borrows sugar from his neighbor.

Everything is written down at my house; what to do, when to do it, whom to do it with and where. Even so, things can get confusing and I end up knowing what to do but not when and where, or even when but not where.

I feel safer with a list; a Christmas list, shopping list or grocery list, something you can hold in your hand and focus on as you rub shoulders with other shoppers.

I sometimes run across old Christmas lists – things that I planned to make and give away. Frequently there are items that never materialized. There can be incorporated into the current list if you are an optimist.

The gardening list is one of my favorites. January is the month for this.

“Nasturtiums in tubs”

“Impatients in the shade”

“Six cucumber plants”

And you are out in the back yard and all is green even though the wind is howling and the snow blows outside.

I lost my shopping list yesterday. It has happened before. I start out with it clasped in my left hand, ready for consulting as I move from aisle to aisle and store to store.

Something catches my eye. A sale! I move into the crowd. Is it a good buy?

I put the list down to feel the goods. Perhaps someone jostles me and I retrieve my gloves but the list is forgotten and is not missed until I am back in the car.

Now comes the hard part as I try to remember what I had written down.

Under A – apples. Got those last week.

Under B – beans. Got those, too.

Let’s try another way. What had I used up? Butter? Eggs?

I snatch up a candy bar that has caught my fancy. Fish? Potato sticks look good for munching. Meat? I must have had cookies on the list. Green vegetables? I suddenly remember bananas. They were on the list!

On my way to them my arm moves out and my hand closes over a jar of nuts. Before I know it, breakfast bars, marshmallow fluff and Twinkies are in the cart.

Checkout time.

Can this be my shopping cart? Where did all this junk food come from? And the $64 question: Can I live for another week on this?

Back at home again, groceries put away, I think of the list: Is it on the counter still? Has the clerk found it and thrown it away? Did she read my cramped scrawl and try to decipher my humble needs?

Drifting off to sleep, I imagine the list wafting down through the darkness, settling on the floor. I hear the hum of the janitor’s vacuum. The tiny patch of white slowly disappears and all is dark.