Confessions of a collector

It was stashed in the back of the remains of my fabric stash, a cedar cigar box.

Where I got it, I can’t remember, but I do remember having it as a small child, its scent so enticing with its little gold latch giving me a sense of “mine.”

At one time it held all of my childhood treasures that included, if I can drag out that memory, a scrupulously clean blue Noxema jar in which I had 10 Liberty dimes.

There were flowered barrettes and a paper napkin from some event that I deemed special.  And there was a tiny statue of the Infant of Prague, an icon that stirred my childhood faith.

Now, it holds a few paper clips, two empty wooden spools, some mother of pearl buttons and a darning sock.

I must have converted treasures  to sewing things at some point. But at one time, it held my private collection of important things.

Today I collect several things.

There are the empty jars, jars that once held — oh, spaghetti sauce or pickles or whatever … that I use to store other things like cornstarch or rice.

Then there are the other two collectables, my paper clips and my bookmarks. As I write this, it does seem that there is a theme to these possessions.

It has something to do with capturing or holding items of value. The jars hold pantry things, the bookmarks my places in books and the paper clips, everything from recipes to receipts.

I wonder if this has anything to do with the me that lies under the surface, the me that organizes or fails to organize my life, the me that mediates my life choices. Hmmm.

I can easily see why I save empty jars.  It’s good for the environment, something that is a great concern to me.

My mother and grandmother did the same, although their saving was just that, saving in times when a lot of things were in short supply, like money.

And thrift is a factor too because I hate to waste things and sometimes that dislike leads me to a kind a paralysis of choices. If my jeans are so worn and ripped that I can no longer repair them,  this no-waste things kicks in and I put them aside just in case I can think of some way to use them, instead of throwing them out.

The same is true of the plastic bins in which cold cuts come packaged. And while I am on that subject, how about the plastic trays and containers in which vegetables are sometimes packaged and the Styrofoam trays on which you get some meat?  I save them too. Grandchildren should be able to make something out of them. Don’t’ you agree? I guess these last things can be categorized as ancillary collectibles.  Yikes.

Then there are the paper clips.

When I tell people that I collect paper clips, a vague “she’s a bit off” look comes into their eyes and they mumble something about one kind of paper clip in two sizes.

Then I launch into my spiel about clips that have ceramic decorations, binder clips that have been painted with flowers and such, heart and shamrock shaped clips, clips with paper flags attached.

All of these reside in my top drawer.  I use them as appropriate and on objects given to those who will appreciate their uniqueness.

And the bookmarks?  My love!

I have all kinds: homemade, artistically conceived and executed,  professionally printed: advertisements for publications, products and events.

I have paper bookmarks, metal bookmarks even wooden and ceramic ones. There is a lovely paper and ribbon piece that I bought at a winery near Lake Chelan in Washington State.

I even make bookmarks, sometimes paper bookmarks and sometimes crocheted.

The latter are true works of the needle crafters art — not mine because I follow other people’s patterns. Lacy and complicated, embellished with fine thread roses, they are executions meant for the special books and special people. My favorite is one that my daughter made in religious education:  It says, “We all belong to the same family. We are all brothers and sister. I show my lover for God by helping my brothers and sisters.”

I have these bookmarks because they have merit in their own right, but also because I love books.  Real books, the kind you hold in your hand, with pages.

The kind that you can borrow and lend to others.   The kind that, when new, must be opened carefully to loosen the binding and sniffed for their new book scent and the kind that, when old, carry the unmistakable  aroma of age capturing the verity of their contents in the context of their time, maybe a snapshot of what was in the light of what is.

My house is full of books, lining the walls of my living and family rooms,  with annexes in what was my son’s and daughter’s bedrooms.

I need bookmarks for all of them. Should I add books to my collectables?

What does all of this mean?  I have no idea.

My “collections” starting with the contents of that cigar box were always small, but important in some way to me.

The books are the exception. I no longer seek to find the deeper meaning for these things, rather I have learned to enjoy my idiosyncrasies.

If the urge to ponder comes upon me, I eat chocolate. How bad is that?  Then I feel guilty. The circle keeps turning.