August 26, 2004 Issue

When you are growing up, especially during those pesky teen years, you think the worst thing that could ever happen to you is that you turn out to be like your parents. As time goes by and you mature, you finally recognize that maybe your parents aren’t as far out there as you thought, and in fact may know a thing or two, but still you know you are your own person and in no way like them except genetically.

Then one day you hear one of your mother’s favorite aphorisms come out of your mouth. You look around for the source of the words for a minute until you realize it was you. Horrors! That must be the day full maturity has been vested and the circle is complete. As much as each sibling is his own person, still you share a set of parents and values that you heard about during all of your formative years.

In some of the ways that really matter, I wish I were more like my mother. For instance, she was a terrific money manager. When my father died, she had two teenagers and an infant, no recent job history and a limited monthly income in the form of social security for three kids and insurance payments from a military insurance policy and some other sort of military compensation paid to widows whose husbands died on active duty. With that modest amount of money, which I believe was around $400 a month, she was able to purchase a house (asking price in 1960, $16,500 for a three-bedroom ranch) clothe and feed us and operate a vehicle.

In the household of my youth, my mother was constantly buying toilet paper. We didn’t have any family problems that in any way required more than average use of this necessary staple, but whenever it was one sale—which was usually weekly somewhere—off she would go, returning with two or three four-roll packages. I’m old, so these were the days before warehouse stores and packages of toilet paper containing nine to 12 rolls of soft comfort for the nether regions. Her philosophy on buying staples well in advance of need was that they didn’t require anything but space. I believe the exact quote was, “you do not have to feed it.”

My mother had toilet paper stashed in the hall closet with various cold remedies, towels, sheets and the like. Moving things around to accommodate more paper was common. It was also stashed under her bed when there was no more room in the closet. After my sister and I left home (kids left in those days) our former closet became another repository for White Cloud, and there was no other acceptable brand. Come the revolution, when the new currency would be toilet paper, she was ready!

And so it was that I found myself in my local Walgreens, where I find myself frequently. I read their Sunday ad supplement looking for bargains on things I want or need and buy them. The other week, they had a hell of deal on toilet paper, so I bought some. When I got home, I went to my own hall closet to store the paper, only to find two giant unopened 12-roll packages already there, along with assorted boxes of facial tissue I’ve bought on sale ‘cause my nose will need it one day. Similarly, under the sinks in both bathrooms, opened multi-packs of toilet paper were taking up space, but not eating much.

What could I do? I laughed. I laughed to the point I almost needed toilet paper, but I was more than ready for that particular need. Unbeknownst to me, I have become my mother.

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