Ghosts of Shingletown Past

I went to Wal-Mart yesterday. I’ll admit it. I do try to stay out of there—shop local, all that. However, one of the things I’ve learned this year is that Wal-Mart’s pharmacy is darn hard to beat on prescription drugs—especially some of the ridiculously expensive ones I’ve been burning through lately.

I promised myself I would just be in-and-out.

As I entered on the grocery side, I was already bracing myself for impact as I headed toward the pharmacy. Wal-Mart is one of those places that generally contains entirely too many people for me—especially the inconsiderate, the ignorant, and the otherwise not-so-bright. And I’ll admit, it’s a “me” thing. I just don’t have the patience for it.

So, as I plunged deeper into the store, I sought to find the straightest path to the pharmacy and get the heck out. I was stopped short in my tracks at the make-up aisle, as I saw a woman, with the same lovely frosted and permed hair, the same mischief in her eyes, and most shockingly, the same look as if she was about to fire off a ridiculously funny—and highly inappropriate—missive, as Carol Ann Dinning.

The way this woman looked brought to mind a day when I was 18 or so, and Carol Ann must have been about 37ish (going on 29, of course). Carol Ann was prattling on enthusiastically about how much weight she’d lost, how great her jeans looked, and what that meant in terms of ‘trouble’ for her husband that night. I really loved her spunk. It was a look from the time that will always be my frame of reference for Carol Ann—radiant, beautiful, smart, funny, and so full of life. It was as if she was the whole genesis of life itself; a force of nature, a woman with her own zip code—not for her physical size, but merely as the most apt way to contain all her moxy.

I deposited that nice memory and got back to the reality of getting to the pharmacy and getting on with the day. Seated in the pharmacy waiting area, I heard this laugh. No, actually, it was more a cackle. As I turned my head to see who was letting out such a distinctive noise, I thought, “that sounds just like Crazy Carol…”

At the moment that thought was registering with me, my eyes cast upon a woman, about five-foot even, with short, feathery, highlighted hair peeking out from under a fedora-like hat, arm clutched around a handbag that looked expertly hand-constructed, and cerulean blue eyes that bespoke a brand of waggery all their own. Had I not known that she had passed on a half-dozen years ago, I would most surely have thought that the woman before me was the same woman who used to call me “Bratinella”, the same woman who loved my dad at a time in his life when he was heartbroken, and fairly unlovable.

I don’t really know the significance of these déjà vu sightings. As has been said a lot lately, maybe it’s just a “mountain thing”. Maybe it’s just precious memories. Maybe it’s just life’s way of re-gifting to us treasures of the past.