It IS My Bag, Man . . .

Duffel Bag Memories

By Paul Chimera



In a day of disposable cameras, computers crying for replacement every couple of years, and other examples of engineered obsolescence, my trusty old black duffel bag remains pretty heroic.
You see, I’ve had my duffel bag since junior high. That makes it handily over 40 years old. Battle-warn and undeniably misshapen, its still rugged constitution is a marvel of old-fashioned craftsmanship.
“They don’t build ‘em like they used to,” adults would lament about then modern Pontiac sedans or particle board masquerading as real wood furniture. But when my parents handed me my duffel bag for gym class and especially for my diving days on the swim team, they never knew it would endure so improbably beyond its life expectancy.
Ounce for ounce, it’s as tough as a bulldozer, and – though slightly split in two corners – could still pull its weight, if it were asked to. It has, well, grit.

Unsightly by Today’s Standards

It’s an indefatigable old bag, nostalgically emblematic of a proud time when “made in America” meant something the rest of the world admired.
I can’t bring myself to part with it. Despite how – compared with today’s roomier, more flexible, more colorful canvas bags – it looks like the frumpy medical bags doctors would carry when they made that anachronism known as the house call.
By any measure, my old duffel bag is unsightly. Ugly might be more accurate. After all, look at it! Coal black vinyl exterior, scuffed and dusty and shriveled. An industrial-looking zipper whose steely teeth are menacing in the way they growl upon opening and closing, which now doesn’t come without a mighty tug.
The durable black plastic stirrup-like handles attach to rectangular metallic loops that fasten to the bag’s side, with stitching that remains admirably unraveled after more than four decades. It did a lot of tough duty in my hometown of Buffalo, New York.
The bag’s underside features five heavy-duty chrome studs – in each corner and one in the middle – all collaborating to render this bad boy battle-ready and poised to take no prisoners. It was designed for the big leagues, not for looking comely at the spa or health club.
Inside, its canvas sides are only slightly faded teal, and the granite-tough fiberboard bottom is a little cracked but stubbornly functional. That bag has carted more chlorine-soaked swim trunks, sweaty sneakers, wet towels, and foiled-wrapped bologna sandwiches than one could calculate.
Though it’s been empty for years, it’s packed with memories. Swim meets at Benjamin Franklin Junior High School and Kenmore East Senior High. My duffel bag, with “PC” boldly painted in white near the handles, journeyed with me to college, too. First at the University of Wisconsin, then for three more undergraduate years at Ohio University in Athens.
Those diving days found me on team bus trips to places like Racine, Wisconsin; Kalamazoo, Michigan, and other towns I’ve forgotten.
Of course, during all those junior and high school summers, and while on break from college, my dogged duffel bag worked tirelessly, masterfully performing the utilitarian task for which it was intended. It accompanied me to town-sponsored summer diving meets, Junior Olympics competitions, and family trips to the beach, both domestic and Canadian. We never made it to Europe or Mexico, but I’m sure if we had, my duffel bag would have continued to perform with aplomb.

Nostalgic Symbol

Many years later, before my wife and I upgraded our travel gear, it continued to see action, toting cameras and toothpaste and cans of cashews on more than a few memorable vacations and impromptu over-nights.
These days, though, my once dutiful duffel bag occupies a corner of a walk-in closet. The heavy lifting is over. It had a long run, far more than anyone could have imagined. It exceeded expectations like a decathlon champion.
My old black duffel bag is a nostalgic symbol of special years gone by. I could no more part with it than I could with the memories it reawakens every time I see it, peeking from behind sports coats, shirt and trousers that hang in front of it like a stage curtain.
Sometimes, when I look inside – maybe I left something behind? – I hear the splash of a wiry 14-year-old boy doing pike somersaults off the diving board. The sound of my parents’ cheering me on. And carefree family laughter I never want to forget. Just like my old black duffel bag itself, now sitting unceremoniously in the corner of my bedroom closet.
I think I’ll keep it around a few more years.


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