The Day After

Once upon a time, this day would have been spent shopping with my Mom. Before the malls came to Warwick, Rhode Island we would shop in downtown Providence. After the malls began sprawling nearby, we would shop there. (My father always insisted the stores moved from Providence to Warwick because Mom had relocated and the stores had to follow her!) We came prepared with lists, wore comfortable shoes and would say yes to all the fancy, sturdy, handled, shopping bags the stores readily dispensed. Once I became a teenager, Mom would periodically send me out to the car to stow our treasures. I became quite adept at shaking my head to wave off hopeful drivers looking for parking spaces. I would re-lock the car and head back in for the next round. Midday, we would stop for lunch. After ordering, we would pull out our lists, check our progress and plot out our strategy for the afternoon.

I loved every single minute of it.

But I haven’t shopped on the day after Thanksgiving in ages. Nor have I darkened the doorway of a mall on the day after Christmas in years and years. Neither has my Mom. For us it was part of era. A 1950s, ‘60s and ‘70s solidly middle class consumerism, which was emblematic of security, celebration and freedom. It was also all tied up in an odd corruption of the Magi and their gifts; laden with religious overtones and being good for Santa Claus; transmogrified into a pile of brightly wrapped presents under an exquisite, twinkling, artificial tree.

I loved every single minute of it.