Hiding in plain sight

Sometimes we take very common words for granted, don’t think of them as we use them to express the mundane, the commonplace, the everydayness of our lives. The word “set”, for example has 464 definitions in the OED.

I have a special place in my heart for “can”.  As a verb or as a noun. It is a word of potential and of promise. I can do this if you can help me.

It used to be a variant of knowing, to ken. It is a wonderful word, three letters that open up an entire world of the future and if things change, well, we can adapt.

It is a word of containment. It holds food that we can eat right out of it, if we’re feeling miserable or in a hurry. Some people love baked beans right out of the can. Others recoil in horror. Open a few cans of this and that, add a piece of chicken, some celery and poof, soup. Or chili. Or spagetti.

Or memories.

Way back in the before time, when kids played together, outside, without helicoptering parents hovering around them constantly, we would all gather outside the Kelcher’s house: “Kick the Can” central.

This elaborate variation on “Hide and go Seek”  was the highlight of those long twilight nights during the months of hard sledding we call summer.

The Kelcher’s house was made for the game.  There was a wide front step that made an excellent goal plus a nice flat piece of sidewalk directly in front for the eponymous can. The garage was separate from the house and, despite a small back yard, there were all  sorts of nooks and crannies for our wee bodies to crouch behind or in.  The steps and can were pretty much equidistant from either side of the house so ‘it’, once having rounded up the less skilled at concealment,  could patrol back and forth easily checking around the corners for would be kickers. She had a pretty good chance of beating the pint-sized ninja back to the can, put her foot on the top and chant.

“1-2-3 on Laurel!”. One more gambled and lost.

If you timed it right you could come up the other side, run like a rabbit and kick the can releasing everyone, becoming hero for a moment. The gaoler would re-set the by now much dented can and start all over again.

First one caught was “it” for the next round. Needless to say, being slow to get away and not designed to hide very well in small spaces, I spent a lot of nights re-setting the can and questioning my role in life.

Every time I see a large can, empty, stripped of labels, sitting in a recycle bin, I catch a whiff of fresh mown lawn and a hint of despair.  Ah, youth.