When I was a kid, families had libraries of photo albums, boxes of loose photographs and slides, and even reels of film stored in closets, attics, and bookcases. The digital era has made it simpler to organize our memories. However, sometimes I miss flipping the pages of an album and being surprised by what was on the next page, and sleuthing out by decor, clothes, and haircuts when it was taken.
I remember one such day when the surprise was a bit more than I expected. The 1980s await behind door number 15.
December 15, 2024
Staples opened its first store in the Boston neighborhood of Brighton on May 1, 1986. At that time my father was a detective at the Boston Police Department’s District 14 in Brighton. I was finishing up my junior year of high school. Some people believe in coincidence, I am not one of them.
Along with his eyesight, left dimple, and swagger, I inherited my father’s love of office supplies. He’d get excited when he got a new pen or opened a fresh notebook. When multicolored paper clips came out, he was ecstatic. His enthusiasm for organizing things was unmatched. Although even he would admit that sometimes the method of organization only made sense to him.
When Dad discovered the new Staples store, he explored every aisle. It was his version of Disney World. He offered a thorough debriefing of its contents over dinner. He brought home colored pens, mechanical pencils, and manilla folders. I remember my mother wondering what we were supposed to do with a gross of manilla folders. It turns out he had plans to reorganize his report writing and case notes at work. Staples had created a monster. I have no doubt that he was single-handedly responsible for their nascent success.
I joke, but he did come up with new ways of handling the mountain of paperwork and photographs that he carried around in the trunk of his unmarked car. There were no mobile phones or digital cameras in 1986. Everything was done with a lot of paper and printed photos. Mugshots, in particular, were essential to have on hand for photo identity parades and when looking for someone when a warrant was issued. They were also the hardest to keep organized.
The mugshot books at the office were cumbersome, hardcover affairs with the photos affixed to the pages. They couldn’t be brought into the field to expedite identity parades. After another trip to Staples, Dad came up with a mobile version that was quickly adopted by the other detectives. He used a three-ring binder with clear plastic pages that had six pockets on one side. When photos were placed in the pockets back-to-back, there would be 6 mugshots on the front and 6 on the back. It was lightweight and customizable. The photos could easily be replaced and reordered to provide a lineup for a witness at the scene. It just required talking the police photographer into making prints of each mugshot roughly the same size as the pocket. I’m pretty sure that was accomplished with a sub from the sandwich shop around the corner.
It will come as no surprise that, as the family photographer, Dad started to use the same setup for our family photos. It was nice because we could remove photos for framing and reorganize the albums without ruining the photos or the album. We admitted he was a genius. That was probably accomplished with Chinese food.
Travel with me now to a moment in time a couple of years later. Staples is well established in the retail office supply market. Dad’s organization of paperwork and photographs is neatly stored in fancy, plastic file boxes in the trunk of his car. I have just arrived home from college for the weekend. After putting my bag up in my room, I sat down on the sofa in the open kitchen/family room area to relax and talk to my mother who was starting supper. A red, three ring binder lay on the coffee table. Fun! Mom and Dad must’ve been looking through family photographs.
No. No, they hadn’t been.
Upon opening the cheerful red (also my favorite color) cover, I was greeted by six of the scariest looking men I’d ever seen in my life. Startled, I yelped and slammed it shut. My father had just walked into the room. He looked equally as startled as he realized that he’d forgotten to put the mugshot book back in his car. He looked at me, looked at my mother, and then back at the book. He was doing some kind of Dad calculus about how much trouble he might be in.
At this point, I guess he figured the die was cast and his fate sealed, so he started to laugh, a loud belly laugh. I chastised him, “What were you thinking? Leaving that there where anyone could open it!” He replied, “I brought that home so you could choose a husband.” I started laughing, but I was still incredulous. I sought a little maternal backup, “Mom?” My mother, completely unfazed, looked up at me from whatever she was chopping and said, “Don’t be so choosy. You may not get a better opportunity.” My father howled.
I was raised by lunatics.
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