As I have been sitting here thinking about what I want to write today, I have been looking at my floor-to-ceiling bookcase. It does contain books as it should, but it also contains various pieces of memorabilia. As I looked it all over, the question came to mind, "What do those things say about me and who I am?"
First of all, they say that I tend to be a sentimental pack rat. Some of the things might have some monetary value, but most have value to no one but me. Take for example the foot tall, hourglass shaped, clear glass, marble filled vase sitting on the top shelf. To any visitor in my home, the vase is just a common, ordinary vase. To me, that vase brings back special memories, memories of a delivery van pulling into my driveway with a package for me. Inside were a dozen beautiful roses plus the vase, a token of love and support from my brother and sister-in-law soon after my husbands crime had been discovered. The flowers have been gone for years, but the vase and the memory of my family's love remains.
Then there are the marbles inside the vase. Oh the school day memories they bring back. Those agates, puries, cat-eyes, and steelies were my pride and joys when I was in the fifth and sixth grades. You see, I had outgrown the game of "Wild Horses" we used to play at recess. Let me explain. I grew up in Nevada. In "Wild Horses", the cowboys (boys) chased the horses (girls), caught the slow ones (some of us were slow on purpose), and put them in a "corral" in the corner of the playground. The cowboys tried to capture as many horses as they could before the recess bell rang. In the mean time, some of the still-free wild horses would try to rescue the captured ones. So, by fifth grade, "Wild Horses" had become kids play and I had changed to the game of marbles; and I was good.
Now, all those memories of my family's love, and of beating the boys at their own game are sitting in a glass vase in my bookcase along with the memory of my Dad's phone call soon after I was married informing me that I had no excuse for forgetting things. I hadn't really lost my marbles like I had thought. He had found them in the basement and was mailing them to me. "Very funny, Dad."
On the next shelf down are three plaster-of-paris figurines that some of my grand kids painted with tempera paint several years ago. There is one fish and two turtles. Are they valuable art pieces? To me they are. I actually tossed out them earlier this year, then retrieved them because of the memories they evoked. They were Thanksgiving memories when the usual crowd of family and friends filled the house. The usual noise of adults playing cards and kids playing other games filled the air along with the lingering aromas of turkey, dressing, and pumpkin pie. In the middle of all the hubbub was the newspaper covered table surrounded by a cluster of kids with paintbrushes. Their concentration and creativity was palpable. These kids were future Rembrandts at work, or Van Goghs or Michelangelos. Thus, I have three, hand painted, unique, colorful works of art created by three wonderful, creative artists--my grand kids.
I could go on and tell you about the large blown-glass pear that belonged to a friend who died at the age of 89, or the teddy bear belonging to my husband's aunt who worked for a Hollywood movie studio, or the large, carved, wooden leaf that sat on my father-in-law's dresser, or the menorah I got when I lived in Israel, or the origami tulip a grandson made, or my mother's music books, but I won't.
Yes, my stuff shouts out loudly and clearly that I am a pack rat, but they also shout out that I am blessed. You see, they are daily reminders of my blessings, the people I love and who love me, the adventures I have been given, the sights I have seen, and the lessons I have learned. I will unashamedly say that my sentimental collection is my way of saying in unspoken words, "Thank you, Lord. I'm blessed."
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