The Act of Collection

The day after Christmas, Rosedale Mall, near St. Paul, Minnesota. I have reached my maximum family time and I've not been home more than 48 hours. Why I think I'll find an escape in a mall, I don't know. Out and about seems to be a better option than in and amidst.

I hit up my usual stores and get frustrated in the process. There's so many people everywhere and everybody seems to be in a bad mood. I walk fast and swerve to avoid missing so many texters and talkers. I wonder why people don't pay attention.

I finally end up in Borders and head upstairs where the crowd seems to be lessening. Being amidst books has always calmed me down. Perhaps, it seems, possibility is all around, just waiting to be uncovered or opened up or realized.

As I move around, I hear somebody say, "Hey, Nebraska." It takes me a minute to realize he's talking to me. A randomly picked sweatshirt has gotten his attention. I smile and walk over to him. "Are you from Nebraska?" He tells me he is, that he grew up there, that he lived in a little town that is now part of the big city. Who I guess is his wife standing next to him brushes her hair violently. He keeps talking.

I never know what to do in these moments, when clearly the other person is more interested in telling a story than paying attention to anything you might have to say. So I just stand there, honestly wishing I could fall back into the silence of the browse. But he keeps at it. He tells me that he's a retired military man, that he makes 85K a year and that he's trying to start up a personal training business. He tells me that 25 years in the military lost him his first marriage, that he wonders why his daughter has hooked up with a North Carolinian when she had the world at her feet. I smile and nod, wondering why it's me who keeps standing, unable to escape. I even try to end the conversation more than once, telling him that I'll tell Nebraska "hi" for him. But he keeps at it.

This time he asks me what I do for a living. I tell him where I teach and hesitantly tell him about my advanced degree work. It's something I never know about, because with one crowd, it appears I'm bragging. With another, they find ways to "up" themselves in my eyes, when really, I would never judge someone on the letters that follow or precede their name.

He's the latter. This sets him off on a whole new path. He's been a sociology professor at the University of Minnesota. His resume is 25 pages long or it could be, he says. He's thought about getting an advanced degree, but he just doesn't know. Because of a grapefruit sized brain tumor he had removed four years ago, he's considered mentally disabled. He'll never have to take the GRE. If an institution requires it of him, he can sue their pants off, he continues.

I try a few more times to move back, to point my attention elsewhere, to close off the conversation. The more I try, the more he keeps talking and adding onto his story. Years ago, he spent his own money on publishing his memoir, "My Walk with God," the story of the tumor. There are two chapter thirteens, but what do you get for paying thousands of dollars to tell your story, he asks me. He says he's always wanted to write another book, but have somebody else publish it. "English, huh?" he asks as if I should understand something implied in his question. I just smile and nod, wondering what on earth this interruption is supposed to teach me.

His next topic of choice is marriage. He tells me that if he knew then what he knew now, that his first marriage never would have failed. That he would have given time to it, instead of selfishly working on his career. He points to the woman who was brushing her hair earlier, who now browses herself amidst the shelves. "She's my best friend," he says. "It doesn't matter what someone looks like on the outside. It's inside that counts." He points his finger to his chest for emphasis. "A heart can be the most beautiful thing in the world."

I decide that I'm done trying to get away, to escape from the retired soldier who had a brain tumor who is married to his best friend. And as I seem to relinquish my escape route, he eases up. Perhaps his story is told. Life shared. And that's what he needed. Or maybe what I did. "Mike," he says as he extends a hand for shaking. As I introduce myself and hold my hand out, he grips it and looks me in the eye and says, "Pleasure. I'll let you get back to your shopping now." And I stutter, trying to apologize for wanting to get away, for not wanting to pay attention.

A week later, I continue to consider my conversation with Mike, at a random bookstore, with thousands of other shoppers. While talking to a lifelong friend and trying to recapture these Mike moments for her, she simply said, "You are a collector of stories. You tell them, you listen to them and you share them. Maybe this was supposed to remind you of the importance of the act of collection."

As I look a semester in the face, I truly desire for this space to be a collection of stories, of random moments pieced together, memories of seemingly unessential bits of life that are collected and written down and shared. Maybe it's not the meaning behind them that is the goal, but rather the paying attention, the sitting up and taking notice, the relinquishing of the easy escape,