Even though National Potato Chip Day was back in March - I received a gag gift of Lays Classic chips earlier this week. The bag resembled a Mylar balloon, having travelled from sea level to the Mile High City.* This delivery affirmed my steadfast belief of how important the US Postal Service truly is. Receiving my ballot in a timely manner was civics in action. 90-day medication deliveries are life giving, cheaper and safer than an in person pharmacy visit. But potato chips? Excuse me for mixing metaphors, but they take the cake.
I subscribe to "Informed Delivery", a service of the USPS. Almost every day I am pinged that a package or handbill is in the mail hut of the complex where I live. Knowing what is in store when I open the little mail receptacle adds drama and excitement to my otherwise mundane life in the time of Covid. It's my own personal OOH-OOH moment! I can be a kid in the minutes between notification and gathering. I can get my tools for opening the package at the ready. Knife, letter opener, an orange band-aid for the inevitable paper cut incurred by overzealousness.
But the USPS failed in their mission of informed delivery and neglected to get my hopes up that a surprise awaited. When I opened the little door recently there was a key to enable me to access the larger boxes available for packages. This convenience has never stopped the mail carrier from pushing and shoving bundles into the rectangular slot: bending CD cases (sorry Andrea), and tearing fliers and other important correspondence. Once he packed my mail and a package in so tightly, I had to leave a note and ask for him to put it in the bigger box, less than an arm's length away. But I am not here to bash the postal service - our current administration does enough of that without help from me. I am grateful that my mail shows up, mostly unscathed and somewhat on-time.
I took the key and a deep breath and opened door #118. What would I find? Well, we already know it was a bag of chips. But not just any chips. Lays Classic - a generous 8oz bag to boot. Not one of those small school lunch sized bags, but a convenience store end-rack special. I used to buy those individual, portion-control chip bags ostensibly for my children's brown-bags. I would tell myself that I could eat just a little bitty amount, maybe 15 chips or so. But the truth is the effort to open another bag and then another wasn't too strenuous and the reward of salty goodness was always worth it. After all you can't spell chips without HIPS!
The note read: Sorry. I think these are all good. Enjoy. Marvin. Now why would Marvin send me chips, you might ask. I admit it took a bit of head scratching to recall that I had recently told Linda a story about me, Marvin and America's favorite snack. I was six and let's just say Marvin was a grown-up. No need to out his age here. We were at this idyllic swim 'club' that my parents joined each year for about $100.00. A five-acre sand bottom pool, tennis and volleyball courts, picnic areas, even mini-golf! This was the sixties and I would later come to learn that my mother was not drinking coffee from her bottomless thermos in the 90 degree/90 percent humidity weather of the Hudson Valley.
I was a skinny, high-diving mermaid. These leisurely days of summer were the highlight of my suburban childhood. This day found us under the giant willow that shed thousands of leaves into the water every day. There were lounge chairs to catch the breeze, enjoy the shade. I was having lunch - and though I don't remember all the details of the day - I am confident that I was hungry because swimming still has that effect on me. Five+ decades later, that hasn't changed. Marvin kept dipping into my bag of chips and would proclaim after each one "That one is no good." Finally, the final chip and Marvin declared "Now that was a good chip". Or something like that. It was a long time ago, but I know the gist of my memory is accurate. Just like my dad taking a giant forkful of my cheesecake at Leonetti's - these memories of purloined potato chips and pastries do not elude me. Unlike the diner caper, I did not burst out in tears over a chip or two. Nonetheless the trauma is real or I wouldn't be dedicating an entire blog post to potato chips!
The memory of that day, those times of carefree childhood, telling Linda the tale... It all came back to me. I laughed out loud and that was medicine for my soul. I glanced at the postage Marvin had shelled out and realized these chips would be the most expensive snack of my life. Ha! - worth it I thought. I quickly penned Marvin a thank you email, told him an old corny potato chip joke in the process. And then it occurred to me. I should have told Linda the story in exact detail editing just one small fact. Nothing too major. What writers might call embellishment or a character change to move the story (or reward) forward. I should have made the star of the saga Mallomars.
1 comment:
Always the author--- who can turn a bag of chips into a retelling of a fond memory of yester year.
Love reading your pieces! Miss you!
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