Monoculture/My Father's Son

Home Depot and REI -- how many weekends of my youth were spent at these two fine establishments, both of which I visited today? When my parents were together we lived in Cupertino, CA, and my dad worked 9-5. Mom would fit her schedule around his, so weekends found her in the hospital delivering babies while my younger brother and I tagged along with dad on his twin passions: hiking, and remodeling the house. (Socio-historical note: all his renovations were for naught. When we moved, the house and its expensive Anderson windows were demolished so a Silicon Valley McMansion could be erected on the carcass).

When you step through the sliding doors of Home Depot a certain smell envelopes you. Paint, glue, bricks. Dust of concrete, funk of the nursery. Fresh-cut wood and the promises of topsoil. It is the smell of industry mixed with the humility of the single-family home, and every time I smell it I am transported back in time to my youth. Back in time, but not back in space, to Cupertino. Because every Home Depot is the same. In the last two months I've been to Home Depots in three time zones and two countries, and besides small changes in floor plans, the only differences I noticed were in the aisle signs: In Middletown they're in English; in Santa Fe, English with Spanish subtitles; and in Cabo San Lucas, Spanish with English subtitles. Globalizing attitudes about construction and development.

All REIs, on the other hand, are not created equal. I went to the Santa Fe store to buy a stuffsack for my sleeping bag, which I couldn't do at home because the REI in Marin was out of stuffsacks. Out of stuffsacks!!!!! Who are these people? "Hey everybody. Um, so, sorry but -- yeah, we're going to have to call off the K2 idea. No more stuffsacks. Our bad!" Sheesh Louise. But the moment I pushed through the REI Santa Fe doors I knew there would be stuffsacks -- and so much more. This was an eden, with fabrics made of difficult-to-pronounce-but-xtremely-functional chemicals glistening in pastures to the horizon. I was so taken that my internal monologue even ceased, the one that usually goes, Psht! These people. REI is just another place for wussy yuppies to blow more of their endless money on their once-a-month road bike or a fancier yoga mat. Gear is just bling for the granola set. Ooooh! I could use a new headlamp.....NO! Shit, just grab the stuff for the sandals you're making to prove you're even crunchier than these posers and GET OUT OF THERE!

But this time (with apologies to Allen Ginsberg):

Aisles full of sleeping bags! Wives in the
base layers, babies in the performance outerwear! -- and you, Edmund Hillary, what
were you doing, down by the quickdraws?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant racks of thermarests...
tasting clif bars, possessing every style of
climbing pant, and never passing the cashier.

Ah -- Never passing the cashier. In the end I couldn't take up my father's mantle. For him, one of anything is never, ever enough. Socks should be not only technically sophisticated, but copious. This extra pack/strap/pair of rainpants will come in handy at some point, for someone. We say he even keeps up an informal wilderness outfitting operation: "Kitchen Sink Travel: Why Leave Home Without It? You CAN Take it With You." Back in the day he set records for gear fit into a Camry station wagon (may it rest in peace) and friends came to count on his excess. "Why bring gloves?" a fellow traveller said, "S will have three extra pairs."

To my shame, I walked out with only what I'd come for.