Lost in a Time Warp with Hudson

Hudson Eric

My husband and I just got back into Orlando from Atlanta.  Our daughter Barbra gave birth to a son, our first grandchild—yeah!--and she and her husband named him Hudson.  Hudson?   It’s neat, but an odd choice, I thought.   I grew up in Detroit, and that was the major department store, the place where the Schwartzes spent most of the little discretionary income we had; the retail establishment where my mother paid the minimum each month so that we could keep charging a tiny bit more.    Yet we loved that store though the bill kept growing, and my mother always said that we’d never get rid of Hudson’s.  Years later we finally bought ourselves out of debt, but if anybody ever told me that my grandson would carry the same name…
 Yet it's a grand sturdy name, an historic one, and I'm proud that we'll be calling him that forever.

Hudson's at Northland Shopping Center, Detroit

But you know it’s funny about being away from home and keeping busy—helping with the feedings, laundry, grocery shopping, and other errands.  Somehow I got turned around, swallowed into a time warp, like half my brain got sucked in a vacuum.  I was walking and talking but not completely there.

 

Bob and I took a break and ran to the mall for a couple hours.  We strolled into Nordstrom’s and I beelined to the sales’ racks--because that's what I always do-- and picked up a couple of T-shirts at 50% off.   Though I could’ve paid with my Visa, they offered to look up my Nordstrom’s card.   When the salesclerk asked me for the last 6 digits for my social, I spit the numbers back.  But when she asked for my zip code, I stuttered, then paused.  I tried again, using a couple combinations, then a few others until I couldn't think anymore.

Jesus, I forgot my own zip code!

I stood there feeling my cheeks burn, wondering if my body would self-ignite and end this misery once and for all.  (The salesclerks were hysterical.   I thought one was going to collapse to the floor).

But if my brain was even working at 20%, I could’ve remembered to open my wallet and read my license with my address and seen the numbers in front of me.  Instead, I called my husband and asked him the burning question.   He joined the hysteria.

A few minutes later, the transaction completed, Bob was standing beside me.  Afterwards, I needed to use the restroom, and he waited outside.  We then sauntered around a few minutes when I realized I had left my bag in the stall!  My God.   Was this a nightmare? And why didn't I leave the bag with him?  I always do.

I sprinted across the floor to the bathroom.  Gone, as I knew it would be, and I reported my loss to the clerks at another desk.   They called customer service, but not surprisingly, no one had turned it in.   So it wasn’t meant to be, I told myself.   So everyone is forgiven for forgetting their zip code and leaving their merchandise behind.  Or are they?    Maybe I got the early stages of…

DON'T SAY THE WORD.

Or maybe they're just senior moments.  Yes, people make mistakes all the time.  But these were so stupid...    “What’s my grandson’s name?” I asked myself as we made our way to the car.  “Hudson,” I answered before my husband had a chance.  Got it.   Then I’m okay, perfectly fit--at least in the b.s department, and today, that's the only one that counted.