Forgive me if I indulge in a bit of nostalgia, but for this essay it seems appropriate.  I’m referring to an old radio program called “Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons.”  If you admit your age is hovering somewhere near four score, perhaps you can remember listening to the broadcast with your parents as you gathered around the radio in your cozy living room.  (Picture a Norman Rockwell painting.)

Typically, the program would begin with a rap on the door of the office of Mr. Keen, private detective.  Responding to a gruff “Come in,” the distraught person would enter and tell Mr. Keen about so-and-so who had failed to show up for an important appointment day before yesterday, and hadn’t been seen or heard from since.  Mr. Keen, who never did reveal his first name, would respond with the usual probing questions and of course, agree to take the case.

The show, which first aired in 1937, ran until 1955, and was one of radio’s longest running broadcasts, spanning 18 year.

Well, Mr. Keen, while I applaud your success, you ain’t got nothin’ on me!  My run as tracer of the missing has lasted 42 years thus far, and I fear I am in it for life!

Why, on a bright September day, did I suddenly remember Mr. Keen?  Because yesterday found me on my hands and knees, brandishing not a Glock 44, but a flashlight, and running my fingers under the dark and dusty space beneath our convertible sofa.

Why had I put myself in this dangerous situation where getting up off the floor could be hazardous to my health?  Because my steady client, otherwise known as my husband, had presented me with my latest case.  He had misplaced his keys somewhere within the confines of our home, and although he looked for them they were nowhere to be found.

After a thorough interview of his whereabouts since he let himself into the house – with said keys – it was obvious to me that the focus of the investigation had to be the couch.  Removing the cushions revealed only crumbs from the sandwich he had eaten for lunch.  So it was imperative that I take the next step.  And, voila! I emerged with the keys.  All that remained was that I successfully lift myself to a standing position!

Unlike Mr. Keen, my engagements do not begin with a rap on the door, but rather with a plaintiff cry: “Honey, can you help me find my………,” or, “Susan, have you seen my……..,” or, a more desperate “My credit card is missing!”

I cannot attribute this to dotage.  It’s been going on forever.  Besides keys, I’ve repeatedly been called upon to locate cell phones, eye glasses, wallets, umbrellas, as well as a shirt or a pair of shoes that he swears someone took from his closet.  Although the reason why a burglar would nab a pair of old Skechers eludes me.

Over time, my role as “finder” has gradually been taken for granted.  If I cannot find something, then it is truly lost.  I’m reminded of the old “Domestic Goddess” comedy routine from Roseanne Barr when she was doing stand-up.   “Husbands assume that wives know where everything is.  They think the uterus is a tracking device!”

Perhaps Roseanne hit on something and there really are gender related differences when it comes to searching.  Not wanting to extrapolate too much from such a small study, but I am definitely more thorough than my husband when it comes to locating lost objects.  He might lift a cushion and give up, while I’m the one with the miner’s cap shining light on dark places.

In the spirit of “mansplaining,” perhaps we need a new verb to describe the male approach to finding things.  For lack of something more creative at this time, I’m going to suggest “mearching” (man searching), and hope it captures the nature of man’s quest for the missing! If you come up with something better, Mrs. Keen would be happy to hear from you.


On a completely different note, I’m thrilled to report that my latest book of essays is scheduled for release on October 2.  Entitled Laughing My Way Through the Third Stage, the Kindle version is now available for pre-order on Amazon .  Please check it out! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BFBW89Y5  The soft-cover version will be available at the beginning of October.
​

Labor Day weekend is upon us, and despite the fact that we were just experiencing a heat wave, come Monday, summer is unofficially at an end.

In truth, summer is not really over until the calendar says it is, on or about September 21.  But then, the calendar completely ignores the real indications of the season’s conclusion, like shorter days, covers placed back atop swimming pools, and traffic at a standstill while the school buses unload their charges.

And didn’t I just see Halloween candy being stacked on display at my local food store?

(Why do retailers insist on compressing my life? At this age, I can’t afford to be rushed.  But I digress.)

But perhaps the strongest indicator that vacation time has come and gone is the long-lived fashion commandment that, as of tomorrow, all white attire and accessories are subject to banishment!

So, Tuesday might also be considered a holiday, (White-Out Day?) celebrated by collecting all of the white items in your closet and exiling them to storage for the next two seasons.  (Unless you spend the winter in Florida, in which case you’re allowed to ship them south.)

Being a woman of a certain age, I cannot remember a time when my seasonal wardrobe was not governed by the Memorial Day\Labor Day rule — that all things white emerged from hiding during the Memorial Day weekend and went back into hiding immediately after Labor Day.  To do otherwise was to put yourself at the mercy of the fashion police.

Curious about its origins, I did a little checking into the mandate that for so long controlled the colors in my closet.  I discovered that, in fact, its onset was born out of wealth and class, as well as a certain practicality.

Labor Day became an official holiday in 1894.  For the wealthy classes in large cities, particularly in the northeast, the summer season was bracketed by Memorial Day on one end, and Labor Day at the other.  Those with money would leave the cities for the cooler shore, or cottages in the country.  White clothing was worn because it was cool and came to signify leisure and vacation.

Returning to the cities after Labor Day meant the end of vacation and back to work.  In the cities, white clothing was no longer practical.  Hence, light clothing was stored away, and darker colors emerged for city life.

Apparently, this notion was reinforced during the 50’s by women’s magazines, which encouraged an ongoing fashion identity with the wealthy.  I no doubt glanced through some of these issues while accompanying my mother to her weekly beauty parlor appointments.

But here we are in 2022 and the right-to-wear-white-on-Tuesday question is still under discussion.  Just ask Google.

I did that, and the consensus, based on the endless number of vapid fashion blogs available on the internet, suggest that women, and their summer whites, have, in fact, been untethered.   We have been granted permission to do as we wish.  (Although why we needed permission in the first place is definitely a matter for another discussion.)

So, ladies, and men, make your own choices.  If you care to wear your crisp white linens at Thanksgiving, feel free.  Just be careful and don’t mistake your pant leg for the dinner napkin.

As for me, come next Tuesday, I shall probably stare at my own closet, and try to be mindful that, although I was a product of the 50s, I am now a thoroughly modern woman. While I no longer look over my shoulder for Serial Mom (see note below if you don’t remember Serial Mom) old habits do die hard.

But whatever I decide to do clothing-wise, I shall draw comfort from the following.  There is no rule about drinking white after Labor Day, is there?

Serial Mom, a satire, is a John Waters film released in 1994.  Kathleen Turner played a “sweet” suburban mom who killed people for committing social faux pas, like wearing white after Labor Day.

Originally published August 31, 2018.
​