Of Greatness

Advil and Christmas wrapping paper are on my list. It is a cold day. At about 9:30 in the morning driving to the Target store, the outdoor thermometer in my car reads 22 degrees. The engineering which goes into cars, that for the most part they function without complaint over such a wide temperature range, is remarkable. Looking at the tangle of cars moving around me on the streets I think about the decrease in fuel economy when the temperature drops - all those cold, thick, lubricants and all the extra work it takes to squish them, to make them flow. These are the things occupying my mind as I drive defensively through the madness called Cerrillos Road.

The winds’ cold teeth bite right through my fleece sweater as I walk from the car to the store. Once in the door, immediately to my left, lurks a Starbucks kiosk. How clever. The kiosk twinkles in high key lighting. Muffins and slices of sweet quick breads glisten in individual wrappings. What could be more inviting, coming in from the cold, than a hot cup of coffee and a sweet treat? And what could be better for the bottom line than shoppers with nervous systems brimming with caffeine and spirits thus uplifted? Nonetheless, I forgo the Starbucks. As enticing as it is, I’m also inclined to forgo the post-coffee-and-sugar crash which would most certainly come at about 2 o’clock.

One of the reasons I like Target is the quiet. Quiet as in no music. Here it is, seventeen days before Christmas and not one Christmas carol to be heard. This comes as a great relief. I don’t dislike Christmas carols, but really, one day of them, say on December 25^th, would be plenty.

I grab a small shopping basket from the stack and make my way into the world of the store. The décor is a little heavy on the red, but oh, it is quiet. A goodly number of shoppers wander about. A young plump woman whose red jersey top identifies her as a staff member is marching down the aisle, pushing a heavy duty wheeled cart with an unadorned artificial Christmas tree standing on it. The scene tickles me. A woman wheeling a plastic “tree” through the store on a cart with a load rating expressed in tons. I look at her and smile. She does not look at me and she does not smile.

In the aisle devoted to pain relievers, and gosh there are a lot of them, I find the Advil. Like orange juice, milk, butter and eggs, of course there are now some eight varieties to choose from. I find the standard (at least they used to be standard) tablets, and go for the 200 count bottle. It seems as I’m aging I eat these things like popcorn. To put this in perspective, in the entirety of my life previous to this period called “getting older” I’ve probably taken twenty, maybe thirty, pills total. So now, taking a couple Advil in a day seems like a lot. I count my lucky stars to have this perspective. By getting one 200 count bottle rather than two 100 count bottles, I spend $2.00 less. I take a package off the shelf and check the use by date: 03/18. I then reach to the back of the shelf and take another package - hey, they’re all for sale - and check the date: 04/19. I put this package in my basket and head to the far back corner of the store where all the Christmas junk can be found.

Negotiating eight varieties of Advil will be a piece of cake compared to what lays before me: a beckoning, multi-color extravaganza of lights and glitter and shiny trinkets, and lot’s of red. Up front and center stands a display of what has to be two hundred kinds of wrapping paper. I loiter around it and slip into the early muttered-under-my-breath “Oh Gawd” stages of being overwhelmed. Snap out of it Gordon, focus on green. What I came in here looking for is green wrapping paper, and just like magic a roll pops into view. But it’s plain, albeit metallic, green. Then I see a brilliant multi-color metallic plaid which has green in it, but if I look at it a moment longer I might go into convulsions. That’s about it for the green. It must not be in this year. But, but.

Suddenly a girl’s voice breaks into song, at full volume. I recognize the song, but can’t now recall what it was. It’s a darling voice, and she has no problem carrying a tune. I look up. The girl, of probably ten or twelve years, sits on the floor. In her singing she appears oblivious to her surroundings. Presumably, the woman standing next to her is her mother. The woman calmly goes about studying a display of tree ornaments. The scene strikes me as a little odd, but sweet. That the child is so free of self-consciousness to sing her heart out right here right now is wonderful, and I hand it to the mother for allowing it. Why not? We all might be better off by just singing.

The only other green on offer is a thin stripe along with broad stripes of red and white. Nope, not what I’m looking for. Ready to give up on the wrapping paper I spot a roll with red and gold reindeer leaping across a silver background. Hey, reindeer are cool. Yeah, it’s not green, but it will do just fine. I put the roll in my basket. Now I look for ribbon and discover there is no ribbon. Bows out the ying yang, but not a roll of ribbon in sight. What kind of place is this? Do we now live in a ribbon-less world? Really and truly I do not want bows, nor do I want a package of a hundred of the things. (I have three presents to wrap.) There’s a small pleasure in winding ribbon around a package and tying a nice neat knot, and the ribbon depends on the paper. So if I can’t buy ribbon, then I’m not going to buy paper. The roll of reindeer goes back in the display. Peeved, I remove my package of Advil from the basket and set the basket on the floor. Let somebody else carry the thing back to the front of the store, damn it. Now about to make my exit I think, well, let’s look around to the next aisle. Maybe, just maybe there’s some ribbon in the next aisle.

Sweet Baby Jesus! It turns out the display I’d been at was just the appetizer. In the next aisle? At least another three hundred dazzling rolls of paper. And ribbon. And bows. And baubles and glitter and, and—mid-stride, before I can dive in, I again encounter the woman and girl. They pause in the middle of the aisle and the woman very kindly offers the girl a few words of discipline. From their interaction and from the girls’ response it becomes clear she is mentally ill.

I leave with only the Advil. Then on to the grocery store, and the morning slips away. How many thousands of times have I been to the grocery store? I come home annoyed and bored. But the mixture of detachment and kindness the woman had for the girl stays in my mind. Oh, the mountains of patience and humility and love it must take.

There was something special about that woman. It was greatness.

Gordon Bunker