The Sort

One of my favorite post trick-or-treat rituals is my son's systematic sort of his Halloween candy. He's been doing this for years. He also used to sort his Matchbox cars by model and line up his Lincoln logs in one long running fence throughout the house, like the artist Christo but without the wraps. But he organizes his treats more like Black Watch plaid than BN rail lines, and each category of candy or such gets a spot in the frame: smooth fillings, like Milky Ways, in one corner; wafer types, like Twix and Kit Kats, in another; hard candies like suckers and Jolly Ranchers, fill another square. Unlike what the parenting magazines are saying, there does not seem to be a move towards healthier treats. He did not get a toothbrush or a granola bar or the organic fruit chews that seems always to be on sale at the co-op. In fact, he did get quite a few King-size bars, some coupons for shakes at Wendy's, and a two-foot-long Wonka Pixy Stick. Of course, he trick-or-treated at the Wozniaks, the richly owners of Hobbit Travel who live in a sprawling mansion over on Edgcumbe Road. He said they gave out the King Size Hershey's with Almonds. Last year they gave out Izzy tangerine pops.

One Halloween, as a kid in Racine, Wisconsin, in the forties, my dad climbed over the big stone wall surrounding the house of the Johnsons and Johnsons--you know, of Johnson Wax fame. He and his buddy scaled the security walls and boldly rang the front doorbell and yelled out trick-or-treat like two kids showing off their new costumes to Grandma. The owners were so surprised they invited them both inside, asked them all kinds of questions, and then sent them on their way with two petite cakes, complete with pastel boiled frosting, that were wrapped in white boxes with pink ribbons and had been sitting on the dining room counter. Funny to think about my dad in costume walking home in the dark, carrying an old white pillowcase stuffed with candy in one hand, and holding his cake box by the top of the ribbon bow in the other.

I'll be doing my own sorting of sorts this weekend. The yard: I've been acting like I completely forgot that I garden or even have a city lawn, the way I've been sitting around sipping chilled vodka and reading big tomes. There are perennials to cut back, divide, and, if not too late, move. The mail: There is a few weeks worth of bills and forms and school information I'll be digging through. I'm going to finally do what they say and have those three piles: keep, donate, and throw. Wait, no, that's for clothes sorting. The paperwork division is: act, file, throw. I have green file folders ready for labeling and some terrific new music to play in the background while I work (Elliott Smith and the new Alison Krauss and Robert Plant CDs; thanks, Sharon!).

The closet: If, by chance, I'm not completely bushed by Sunday, I'll start in on the closet sort ala Tim Gunn. It's just the first week after my birthday and I'm starting a new ritual: one thing every month this year I'll NOT do anymore. This month: I'll NOT sort past those five-year-old duds looking for something decent to wear. I'll NOT keep the black-and-gold kimono wrap that I've not worn once since I picked it up at the UniDale shop last century.

Then, when I finally get back to work on Monday and someone asks me how I am, I'll say, "I'm out of sorts." And they'll think I'm in a bad mood or starting a cold but what I'll really mean is that I'm completely out of sorts--I have nothing left to divide and conquer.