Get Out of My U.P. Drawers

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By Sharon M. Kennedy

We all know nosy people. They’re the ones who poke through your kitchen cupboards, rummage through your drawers, and steam open your letters. They have nose trouble, at least that’s how Mom described them. No matter how busy their own lives are, they always find time to poke into yours.

I remember Mom telling me about the day she visited a sister-in-law who lived in the Soo. Mom was out of the room for a minute when she heard the snap of her purse being closed. She loved that purse because it let her know when a relative opened it, looking for God knows what. Mom never had much money, so it wasn’t a case of theft. It was merely a case of nose trouble.

Perhaps you have a friend or relative with the same affliction. I’m not sure if a person is born with it or if it’s a trait that develops over time. Perhaps it’s a result of imprinting. If youngsters live with a nosy mother, I suppose the chances of them mimicking her behavior are high. Snooping is usually a fairly harmless pastime. For some folks, it’s a hobby. They’re not looking for anything in particular when they search your drawers. They’re just prying into your business due to faulty genes.

Genes take the blame for all sorts of odd behavior. They’re a clever way of dismissing negative personality quirks. Remember Flip Wilson? His Geraldine blamed everything on the devil. She didn’t realize her genes were getting her into trouble.

At one time I, too, was plagued with nose problems. I was eight or nine when I convinced myself I was adopted. I didn’t look or act like anybody in my family so I set out to find the truth. Mom kept an old suitcase in the spare room above the kitchen. I spent hours in that room, playing with my dolls, making up stories, going on pretend journeys, and investigating everything. One day I told my dolls we were going to explore the mysterious suitcase. I pulled it from its hiding place. I knew we were forbidden to open it, but the desire to discover my real parents was too great to exist. I was sure I could find my adoption papers.

My heart beat wildly as I poked through old letters, newspaper clippings, photographs, sea shells Uncle Steve had sent from the Philippines, and locks of hair. Then I found what I was looking for, my birth certificate. I wasn’t adopted. My family was right downstairs in the kitchen laughing and enjoying their lunch while I was upstairs looking for a new home. My snooping ended that day and has stayed at bay ever since.

Well, almost.





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