There’s More Than Hangers in that Closet

It’s a curious little room.

Lots of things. Lots of variety. Lots of mess, sometimes.

Everyone has one, or something like it. One never seems to be enough.

It is a place that you never think about. Closet space never dominates the headlines as controversial. I have never been in a room full of loud, beer-drinking buddies when someone felt the irresistible need to shift the intense football conversation to one about closets.

It is a simple area, but I believe there is much more to it.

I looked up the definition of closet and here is what Merriam-Webster had to say:

An apartment or small room for privacy; a cabinet or recess for especially china, household utensils or clothing.

With all due respect to M-W, we keep our super-expensive china right next to the paper plates and red Solo cups in the kitchen, but they do use an interesting word in this regard – privacy.

Let’s look beyond the obvious. A closet serves a functional purpose. The nicer clothes usually go in there. Dresses, sport coats, blouses, slacks – the things you do not want to get wrinkled. T-shirts, socks, underwear, shorts, etc., most often find their way into a dresser drawer.

As far as privacy goes, I could care less whether someone sees my nicest shirt or my Hanes. However, there are items in the closet that are there only for the owner’s eyes. As defined, for privacy.

Some clothes are there, not because they will ever be worn again, but because when they were worn, that moment in time was special.

A boxed wedding dress from that big day or bridesmaids’ dresses from a sibling or friend’s wedding. They are typically bought at really high prices knowing full well that they will likely only be used once. Nevertheless, “once” is what makes it unique.

For me, the only leather jacket I ever owned, a brown bomber bought in 1992. It is six years older than my youngest son, a college senior. Wore it every winter until, upon my wife’s urging, “retired” it a few years ago; my Washington Minutemen football jacket from 1976, with “Mike – Captain” scripted on the front; a pair of outdated, size 34” waist jeans. Just in case. Made by Levi’s, they are a story about hope.

In our spare room closet, the old Risk game. With three boys and me playing, it truly became risky at times. On top of it is Rummikub, my Dad’s favorite. One day we will remember it fondly for that reason alone. Also, a small bookshelf loaded with stories that we will soon read to our granddaughter.

Safes, bins, bags, and purses. We all have our own version. But we often have things in common.

The multiple shoeboxes and beat-up cigar boxes are the deposit boxes in the bedroom vault. They contain old coins, jewelry, past Christmas cards, and an assortment of other gems with little monetary worth but great sentimental value.

The 3-shot automatic photo booth snapshots of you and your spouse while dating. You were both younger, a few pounds lighter and boasted great hair. A classic picture of mom and dad when they were dating, him in a suit and her in a dress. Both are smoking. For my era and older, a fading, worn black and white of grandparents, barely recognizable, when they first came to America.

Dad’s military service patches and medals, an old pocket watch from Grandpa, Boy/Girl Scout pins, a ticket stub from a great concert, baseball cards, varsity letters. A card or letter written from a loved one that still touches your heart.

For parents, early school projects the kids made. The painted porcelain fish, the story book they wrote, class pictures. The Mother’s Day card they made in second grade that mom will never part with.

That’s the greatest kind of stuff. The stuff only you know is there. Or why.

Items like these do not find their way to walls or frames or fireplace mantles. They are not for public consumption, discussion, or opinion. If that time comes, it will be when you decide it. For that closet door is for only you to open.

That little room inside the room is more than a place for hangers. It is also a place for memories.

This column originally appeared in the Times, a Shaw publication.