Even though the pages in these books were blank, opening a new one made me happy. The pages were crisp, clean, fresh, and inviting. They were unspoiled–waiting eagerly to serve their intended purpose, and I could get as many as I wanted free of charge.

Their purpose was to hold S&H Green Stamps. Particularly in the 1960s and 70s, businesses gave out these stamps as a bonus based on the amount that a customer purchased. Catalogues were published showing how many books of these stamps were required to purchase (redeem) an item. 

Each book gradually grew plump as I added the S&H stamps. It felt good to be making progress, but there was a downside. The pages gradually dried, stiffened, curled, and contorted. The whole book became thicker, like an aging person. Neatness and unblemished perfection gave way to value and utility. As they grew bulky and unruly, I imagined ironing the pages back into shape.

As I worked with the stamps, I enjoyed their distinctive green color and design. The color was well chosen. The stamps appeared happy and energetic–but not glitzy or frivolous. 

There was an aqueous component to this activity. The stamps had to be moistened for the adhesive to work. There was some art to the process. Too little moisture and the stamps curled at the edges due to lack of stickiness. Too much moisture led to a soggy mess. The most dreaded outcome was pages getting stuck together. Unsticking them without destroying them was fraught with tension and dread of losing the value of one or more pages. 

The pasting-in process was speeded up by using a little plastic bottle with a sponge top. It was a very useful tool, but it was discouraging to see the red sponge top wear down with use, and it was difficult to control the amount of water that was dispensed. 

***

These books lived in a narrow, shallow closet in our kitchen, next to the refrigerator. I didn’t visit this closet often, so even after 11 years in that house there was a sense of unfamiliarity, mystery, adventure, and the possibility of discovery. That closet existed in its own universe, insulated by its door from the odors and tumult of the house. 

The stamp books were not alone in that closet. There was almost always a hard salami hanging upside down from a hook on the right side of the closet via a loop of white string. Just as at the delicatessen counter, the salami was tightly sealed in cellophane with a metal clip on the end. The clip connected the white string to the salami.

Over time the closet salami turned progressively harder, denser, more difficult to cut, and tastier. Timing was the key. Cut it too soon and the flavor had not yet peaked. Wait too long, and it became impenetrable. It was disappointing when the salami was almost completely eaten, but there was compensation. The end piece was a little mound of concentrated deliciousness. 

Part of the appeal of that closet was the door behind the door. The outside door was a standard full-size wooden door, but there was a small interior door on the back wall of the closet that led to a laundry chute. The chute delivered clothes from the first and second floor to the basement. Originally the chute ended a few feet from the floor of the basement, but a carpenter had built small wooden enclosures for the laundry. Little rooms with their own little doors–one for the second-floor apartment and one for the first-floor apartment. They made great hiding places for hide-and-go-seek or just retreating from the world, and I enjoyed the smell of the wood. 

My mother’s stationery supplies also lived in the kitchen closet. She stored them in a nifty vinyl portfolio. Some of the paper and envelopes in that folder were very lightweight, thin, and translucent. That subset of stationery was reserved for airmail letters. The focus was on minimizing weight. In those days airmail was very expensive, and the cost was based on the weight of the letter. The airmail envelopes were imprinted in red with the words “par avion” with horizontal lines above and below.  The horizontal lines made me think of an airplane flying through the sky.

Despite the almost omnipresent salami, the interior of the closet didn’t have a strong odor. In the aggregate, the objects in that closet created a smell that was mild, pleasant, and tranquil–like a library.

My mother’s favorite disciplinary weapon, a flyswatter, was in there too, hanging from a small hook on the right wall of the closet. This wasn’t one of your lightweight plastic models, barely strong enough to kill…well, a fly. This was a flyswatter to be reckoned with. It had a firm thick metal handle, attached to a hard fabric net. When my brother and I pushed her over the edge with our fighting, which was often, she administered flyswatter discipline with a firm right hand.

***

Filled stamp books were housed in the kitchen closet until there was a sufficient number to redeem. As the chief paster-inner of stamps in the family I was occasionally permitted to choose the reward items. 

The closest redemption center was in the basement of Wiebolt’s Department Store not far from our house. I remember one outing in particular; I was about ten years old. The tension mounted as my mother turned into the Lincoln Village Shopping Center and Wiebolt’s distinctive brightly lit rooftop sign came into view. The sign featured a huge letter W in green neon. The emotional build up continued as we descended into the basement.

I had studied the catalogue exhaustively beforehand, and had a good idea of what I wanted, but I knew that when seeing the choices up close, in showcases, enhanced by the strong display-case lights, like actors on stage, that last minute changes could occur. Eye appeal could win out over utility, durability, or common sense.

On that day I stuck with my plan. I was allowed to choose a highly coveted hatchet-and-hunting knife set in a neat leather holster. These were much too dangerous for my parents to have bought for me, or for them to have allowed me to buy for myself, but apparently my parents found them less menacing as redemption items.  Maybe they felt that I had earned that measure of trust and autonomy through my independent labor on the books. Today, that set is sitting on a shelf of my closet–barely used, because I didn’t want to damage them. Also, I’ve never been much of a sportsman, and the fun was in the process of choosing, earning, obtaining, and owning them.

Non-fiction selected for blog from Issue 10 submissions (Expedited Review)

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