Once or twice a year I vow I must clean the closet in the guest room. This is my indoor, long/short-term storage space. Every time I clean or straighten it I find items I had forgotten existed or else something I had been hunting for months.

I remembered that on the shelves above is the long-term storage of board games rarely played and 1990-era Happy Meal toys. The 18 gallon plastic tub in the floor against the back wall holds Legos. The side shelves house rolls of Christmas wrap, boxes and bags, tissue, and various types of gift-wrapping supplies.

The remainder consists of short-term items I needed to get out of the way temporarily because a guest was arriving to use the guest room. I had pushed them inside this space to deal with later. And later is now.

I begin with strong resolve, sorting the new-and-used gift bags and tissue into two categories to store in plastic bins: Christmas and not Christmas. I make a mental note (not the most effective sort of note for me): DO NOT EVER BUY TISSUE PAPER AGAIN. EVER. Also, do not purchase a gift that does not fit in a bag.

Continuing, I find 6-7 afghans. Most were knitted by me at different stages of my knitting expertise. One belonged to Pokey, our chocolate Lab who died this year. Okay. Too soon to get rid of that. One afghan goes to Good Will and 4 in a sturdy plastic bag. One rests on the back of the recliner, its fate to be decided later.

The next box I unearth has the potential to halt the momentum. Journals, circa 1980 -1999. I moved to Arkansas in 2000 and I knew this box had come along with me. Don’t remember putting it in this closet. This is suitable reading for a cold winter day. If we ever have one.

I choose a book at random. 1997. I was a widow with an 8-year-old boy. Stuck in front was a loose-leaf page of written reminders. I’ve always been a list-maker; wonder why I kept this?

Pay rent
Go to Target
Iron shirt

(here the printing changes to a childish script.)

pay Phillip’s alowinse

help Phillip ride his bike

take Phillip to mickdonalls

buy him something

Ah yes.

Reading for a cold winter day.

Or for a perfectly good Saturday.

We’ve all heard “what goes round comes round.” “It’s easy to dish it out, but hard to take it.” The boomerang theory: What you send off will most likely come back … maybe to bite you. And we all know what they say about Karma. Today it happened to me.

Let me lay a little groundwork. A week or so ago, I suffered a sinus headache that should be in the Sinus Headache Hall of Fame. Just as I was recovering from two days of that, a muscle spasm hit in my hip and traveled clear to my toe.  (Google said this sort of thing often happens to people who sit too long. Of course I was sitting. I had a headache!)

Skip forward a couple of days. I tagged my youngest son, Phillip, on Facebook with a post showing the sort of drama Moms can imagine when their kids don’t answer their texts. I’m sure he was embarrassed at the tag. He replied with a cryptic, “Very funny.”

Now, today.

Just as I pulled into the parking lot, I got a call from a co-worker. We spoke a minute and then I stuck my phone in my jacket pocket. I guess I “pocket-dialed” Phillip (who lives in the Pacific time zone and was most likely asleep). He said later that what he heard coming over the thousand miles between us sounded like I was in great distress. Knowing about my headache/ vertigo/ hip/ leg issues of the past week, he dialed my land line. When I didn’t answer, he called the local police and asked them to go to my house and check on me.

They sent an ambulance and fire truck — thankfully without sirens. Another co-worker, dropping her child off at school, saw the emergency vehicles at my house and alerted everyone at the office where I work.

In the meantime, Phillip thought to call my office. When I answered, he just said, “Omigosh, Mom” several times. I could hear the panic in his voice, which scared me.

He told me what he had done and I said to call the police right back and tell them false alarm before they broke down my door.

All this happened just as I was trying to direct educators to three different workshops, find a Chromebook charger, and answer the phone, which kept being Phillip. Bless his heart.

I rang my 93-year-old neighbor to let her know the situation, in case she had seen the commotion in my driveway.

Later, the church secretary called to see if I was okay. Did someone in the congregation see the ambulance, at my house?

In fact, I spent most of the morning telling folks I was fine.  And I am.

Just a little Karma having its day.

If  there is any activity more problematic for me than clothes shopping, well, I can’t think what it could be.

I have identified myself in this blog as a Middle Kid. Middle Kid Syndrome is a valid emotional condition, though not a clinical disorder. When the family contains three children, the second child — not the oldest (medical marvel) nor the youngest (sweet baby) often feels invisible and neglected. Usually for very good reason. Middle Kids tend to be easy going, go with the flow, play the peacemaker, be the ‘good’ one.

The middle children of my generation never had the pressure of choosing patterns or fabric for Easter outfits. Shopping for school clothes was never a problem. Clothing decisions were made by older siblings. Middle kids wore hand-me-downs. I never learned to shop for myself.

Another difficulty (for me) is that I have no natural sense of style and color — which has nothing to do with my birth order but, still. Some people can buy an accessory just knowing it will match that outfit hanging in the closet back home. I may coordinate an outfit in my bedroom only to find it clashes in the bright light of day. I think I originated the one-blue-sock-one-black-sock fashion statement.

I probably inherited this attribute from my father, since after my mother died he started wearing plaid pants and striped shirt with a paisley tie. But I digress.

Over the years I have learned to play it safe and wear mostly solid colors — a lot of black. I have five pairs of black pants and an obscene number of tees in various colors. Long sleeved turtlenecks for winter and short sleeved round neck for summer. No bling.

Occasionally, I think I would like to change my look. Maybe buy some brown pants. Maybe a shirt to wear over the tee. So, after receiving a gift certificate for a recent birthday, I took myself shopping. Okay, I went to one store.

First of all, no brown pants of any size anywhere in the store. What’s up with that?

Next, the choice of garments in my size was very slim. Which I’m not by the way. That particular store is a treasure trove for the skinnies out there. Or else women of my girth have already purchased anything I would consider appropriate.

I found a cute tunic — only to realize it was a dress! There was also a collection of skirts in my size. But have you noticed that most of the skirt material nowadays is see-through? And I don’t know if they even make half-slips any more. Not from what I observe. I am not going to wear a shear skirt without a slip. No one wants to see that.

Well, while “window shopping” inside the store was fun, it wasn’t very productive. However, I didn’t leave empty-handed.

I bought a black tee.

I’m in a play. I am Juror Nine in the Center on the Square (Searcy, Arkansas) production of Twelve Angry Women. I’m having a blast. I knew six cast members previously and have made five new friends during this time.

In 2014, the “Archie” committee awarded me a life time achievement award. I sat out the 2015 season, enjoying the theater from the front of the house. But with the call for “Women” I decided the fat lady had not yet sung.

Each cast member has many theater credits. One of the fun conversations we have had during down time centers around gaffs, dropped lines, and accommodations made while hopefully keeping the audience unaware of the hysteria onstage.

You’ve heard the expression “The show must go on,” a phrase linked to show business, meaning that regardless of what happens, the planned entertainment must be staged for the waiting audience. They bought their tickets in good faith, they must not be disappointed.

The phrase originated a couple of hundred years ago in the circus. If an animal got loose or a performer was injured it was the ringmaster’s job to keep the show going so the crowd wouldn’t panic. But I digress.

In my 25-or-so years in community theater, where there are seldom understudies, I have seen the SMGO attitude exhibited often.

About 20 years ago I was in the company of It’s a Grand Night for Singing, a revue of Rodgers and Hammerstein hits. The music is lovely, each song set in a little vignette of its own. But this particular production seemed as plagued as Shakespeare’s Scottish Play (bad luck to say out loud).

During the first weeks of blocking scenes and learning music, the choreographer’s mother was diagnosed with stage 4 breast cancer. A week or so later, the soprano’s husband chose that time to end their marriage. An alto lost her job, a tenor lost his father, and when a long-time icon of local theater died suddenly, several in the cast lost a friend and mentor. Yet, for three weekends we sucked it up and gave the audience a show.

In It’s a Wonderful Life, the movie made into a play, main character George Bailey skips through scenes with minor characters, quickly telling the story familiar to most of us. On the first Sunday of our three-week run at the old COTS, we suddenly realized two actors were missing. This was a few years ago before just everyone had a cell phone. When the couple was finally located they were unaware that Sunday was a matinee! They were planning on a 6:30 p.m. call. There was no way they could be there in time for curtain. The director stepped into the tech booth and the sound and lights guy became Harry Bailey. (Suspend disbelief when the WWII hero is sporting a full beard.) One of the moms who had attended every single rehearsal turned into Violet. She would stand in the wings studying lines, then step out and say them. Repeat as needed.

As an actor, I know that being there for the audience is important, yes. But I’m also determined to be there for myself. I have attended hours of rehearsal, I have memorized lines and blocking, I have run lines every day to keep them fresh in my head. I have thought a lot about this character and why she does what she does. Do you think after all that someone else could step into my role? Over my dead body.

Twelve Angry Women has 3 more performances this upcoming weekend. It has been a great run with no major glitches. Come see us if you can. We’ll give you a good show. It’s what we do for love …

For tickets or more information:  www.centeronthesquare.org