Boraxo & 2nd Floor Windows

An unusual title to be sure.

But to regress.

Tonight my wife and I were watching a movie called, “The Intern.” In the movie a 70ish widower, portrayed by Robert DeNero, is hired by a computer app corporation as an intern. And it just so happens that he is employed in the same building in which he once worked in a different capacity. Printing telephone books. And during the course of the movie the former printer remarks to his boss,

“Do you see that low place in the tile over there? That’s where the press once stood.”

Both my wife and I have had similar experiences.

Jean attended Floral Avenue Elementary School before joining me in Mrs. Waters 4^th grade class at Bartow Elementary. While at Floral Avenue, as all children and adults tend to do, she visited the bathroom there. And day after day, after  completing her business, she pulled the lever of a cream-colored Boraxo dispenser, and a small quantity of powdered soap dropped into her outstretched hand.

And during the three years she attended that school she recalls sitting in the lunchroom eating her lunch. It so happened that the lunchroom doubled as an auditorium, and there was a stage on the north end. And Jean often thought how terrific it would be if she were given the opportunity to walk across that stage. But she never did.

Until later.

Much later.

… 50 years later!

For you see, a full half century later my wife accepted the position of ESE nurse at her old alma mater. And a full five decades after eating ham slices and macaroni and cheese, with a few hundred other seven year olds, she was provided the opportunity to climb the steps of that old stage, sit down at the teacher’s table, and eat her lunch.

And during her tenure there, Jean made a poignant discovery. For you see, still mounted on the wall of the girl’s bathroom was that ancient, cream-colored

… Boraxo dispenser.

I served a tour of duty in the active Air Force before completing another thirty-some years in the Guard and Reserve. Back in 1970 (-1973) I found myself assigned to my only permanent base, MacDill AFB, in Tampa, Florida. 

I was a newly assigned personnel clerk, having only just learned to type on an electric typewriter a few weeks earlier. I served in the CBPO (Consolidated Base Personnel Office) and in the Separations/Reenlistments/Retirements Section. Day after day I typed DD Form 214’s which was, and still is the form everyone separating from active service receives on their last day in uniform.

I met and liked many interesting young, and not so young men at the CBPO, primarily in my own section, of which there were six or eight in attendance doing similar duties. (As I recall, I was the “first one out” when I left active duty in 1973).

Having retired from reserve service in 2009, my wife and I still drive over to MacDill AFB, a distance of 50 miles, every 2-3 months, and buy groceries at the commissary.

The CBPO is still there, and is still being used for the same purpose. Sometime in the past year while we were visiting MacDill, we stopped by the personnel offices in order for my wife to procure a new military ID card. While we were there, I stepped up to the customer service window, and asked the airman, (well, in this case, the air-lady) whether she would mind me climbing the steps to the second floor, and check out the office where I used to work. “Airman Jenkins,” responded with a, “Well, no. I’m sorry you can’t. You understand these are active duty offices.” (To which I might have responded, “Well, duh…Yes, of course I know that. I told you I used to work here).

Well, my readers, I would not be denied. After I asked I thought, “Since its’ easier to apologize than to ask permission, I shouldn’t have asked permission.” I stepped away from the sight of the “nay-sayer,” and climbed up to the second floor; on a staircase I had climbed on a daily basis over the course of three years. (Odd, that was almost half a century ago).

I mounted the second floor landing, and took an immediate right, and then another immediate right, and I was standing in my old place of business. I was surprised to see that what I was looking at was no longer a separations and reenlistment office, nor rather an office at all. The approximately 600 square foot office was now a conference room; complete with tables, and a flat screen television mounted on the front wall.

My mind momentarily drifted back to the original layout of the room; 3 typing desks cued up, front to back, on the far side of the office, next to a row of windows, 2 in the center, 1 closest to where I now stood, and 1 in the center, back of the room, where our supervisor, a 50-something Jewish Technical Sergeant sat, (and as far as I recall did little or nothing throughout the course of the day).

Though sometimes I strain to recall the given names of my CBPO compatriots, I’ve never forgotten their surnames. 

There was Shannon, and Ortiz, and Collier, and Finch, and McGibney, and LaLone, (who happened to be a total twirp) and Barbenell; (and our “big boss,” Senior Master Sergeant Koppel had a small office across the hall).

They say you can’t go home again.

Well, I’m not so sure.

By William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from "(Mc)Donald's Daily Diary" Vol. 22. Copyright pending

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