Pockets

Back in the old days, when he had a day off from work, my father Frank J. sometimes wore white t-shirts with a left pocket, a little cloth pouch used for teaching words.

I have a vivid memory of him holding my then-toddler sister Kathy in his arms, pointing to the square on his shirt, and saying the word "pocket." Kathy thought this was great fun. She looked inside the empty pouch and laughed. Frank J. said it again. "Pocket." Kathy giggled. The third time, she put her chubby baby hand over my father's heart, looked him in the eye and said one of her first words: "Pock."

That was a start.

Pockets do hold treasures.

Historically, pockets were originally simple leather bags folks used to carry their stuff. They were not permanently attached to clothing. According to the BBC, "the Scottish sporran...that nifty purse worn at the front of the kilt in traditional wear...comes from the old Irish word sparán, which traces its roots back to the Latin word bursa, or 'purse'."

Today, at the grocery store, I overheard two contemporary women, of a very unfamiliar clan, talking about a purse.

Seems this handbag, fashioned in the hobo design, was purchased at Neiman Marcus. "It was only $1900 dollars," one woman said to the other.

Gewd Gawd.

Some people don't know the value of the jeans pocket.

The left pocket of my usually-worn black jeans is known as "The Vault", and acts as DayTimer, TurboTax, file cabinet and coin purse. It is a receptacle of reminders of what has happened during the day, what needs to be recorded, what I like to remember, and what still has to occur. My brother-in-law Dave gave this pocket its name. One time he asked to borrow a buck, and I reached inside and pulled out this rats-nest wad of receipts and bills and scraps of paper. The Vault was born. It has been known to hold scraps of paper with an email address of a student needing a snippet of code, half a Post-It note reminding me of a phone call needed to be made, or some phrase that appeared in this head as I was thinking about something else, the possibility of some pocketed poem.

Last night, when I returned from a very enjoyable southern road trip, I emptied the contents of the Vault on to the flat space of the kitchen island. I found $4.58 in change, which immediately got dumped into the plastic jug located on the floor of the kitchen pantry, destined to be donated for literacy donation at the end of the year. Gas receipts for a journey of 954.7 miles, an automotive decision made last Thursday when I was supposed to fly out of Dulles, but would have been turned away because of the shampoo in my carry-on bag. A flyer from a pub named Barley's, a place that used to be a hardware and feed store, but now boasts awfully good half 'n halfs, 27 taps serving American micro-brewed beer, way wicked pizza, and non-stop conversation with a smart, original mind.

I also found a couple of white hairs from a 16-year-old dog named Cassie, who, with arthritic hips and sore bones, climbed a long flight of stairs to a room where I sat writing at a wooden desk filled with candles and chocolate, checking to see what I was doing, and for her trouble, received a rub of the stomach and a kiss on the top of the head.

So this pocket replenishes. Just like the pots and bowls of the oldest stories, it can hold magic.

Comments

[Dave Mankin]

Don't forget the other really important function of your pocket - bread & roll holder/warmer! :)

[Mare]

Hey Dave...that's right. One of the age-old questions has yet to be answered: "At a restaurant, is it bad form to empty the contents of the roll basket into your pocket?" A rats-nest of rolls? How very impolite. I vote "No" on the carb rollout. Bad taste. -- Mare

[Christina Gillen]

..pocket full of miracles: maybe we have more than one pocket per pants so we can have more surprises?

[Tanna]

Oh, yes I shall return.